


right under their noses

by anonymousmagpie



Series: the ties that bind [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Harry, Grey Harry, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - Freeform, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Orphanage AU, Slytherin Harry, Slytherin Politics, Voldemort is dead, souls touch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:06:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24096307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousmagpie/pseuds/anonymousmagpie
Summary: Sequel to "Souls Touch, and the Future Changes", authored by now-deleted account sunmoonandstars, which used to be me.Harry continues to struggle with adapting to and understanding the wizarding world, which increasingly seems to have backed itself into a corner by allowing rampant anti-Muggle belief to coexist with rampant ignorance of the Muggle world. Of course, there is also the problem of being a "Light" icon in Slytherin, not to mention the fact that someone seems determined to hamstring Harry's independence.
Series: the ties that bind [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091255
Comments: 167
Kudos: 561





	1. Welcome to Kieldren Heights

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, it's sunmoonandstars, rebranded after a brief hiatus during which my old account was deleted. Long story, and I know no one has any way to verify that I am in fact the original author of Souls Touch, so either accept that it's me or that someone else is taking over to finish a well-loved and seemingly abandoned fic. Welcome back to the roller coaster.

Harry stared at the ceiling.

Seventeen cracks in the paint. There had been sixteen last year. Sixteen-now-seventeen cracks whose shapes he could draw from memory after so many years lying in this bed and staring at the ceiling when he was bored. He’d even tested that, gotten out a bit of paper when he needed a break from his summer homework and scribbled for a few minutes. When he leaned back and held the paper up, the lines were almost a perfect match for the ceiling cracks.

At present, he was staring at the ceiling because he’d been confined to his room, he’d finished all his books and homework, and if he let himself get up, he’d go looking for something to entertain himself. That would probably result in one of the Muggle children getting hurt, since they were his main source of entertainment lately.

Not one letter.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. Davis and Bole he’d kind of expected to write. Longbottom was valuable and Harry had actually written him first, along with Theo, but neither of them responded. He would be having _words_ with Theodore when they returned to school, about how annoying it was to send off two letters and not get a response. It was the end of July, and nothing.

Well, technically, he’d sent Aoife off with the second two days ago and she wasn’t back yet, so she _could_ come with a letter. But he refused to get his hopes up.

A door slammed over his head. People shouted. Harry glared and his magic crackled, begging for release, but he couldn’t do anything after the thing with Giles and his crony on his first night back. The Sisters suspected Harry and were keeping an annoyingly close eye on him even though the two boys never said a word.

In fact, they’d both joined the ranks of people who flinched away whenever Harry came near them. After years of being the one running from _them_ , Harry found it very satisfying.

Something tapped the window.

Harry tore his eyes away from the seventeen cracks and summoned a ball of soft light with a thought. Wandless magic, fortunately, slipped through the Trace’s notice. He couldn’t do nearly as much with it as he could with his wand but it was better than nothing. He’d survived years here with only wandless magic. He could handle a few more summers.

Aoife clung to the windowsill, practically glowing in his light. Harry opened the window with a sigh. “Nothing?”

She hooted softly and jumped restlessly to his shoulder. He grunted under the weight and closed the window. “I know, I know, you want something to do, I’m sorry they won’t write back.”

Her next hoot was a little louder. One wing clipped Harry’s head and her talons dug into his shoulder.

“Ow! Watch it—is that _blood_ on your talons?”

Aoife clattered her beak and jumped from his shoulder to the end of his bed. The owl glared at him with feathers fluffed up in classic angry body language.

“You’re mad at me,” Harry guessed.

Hoot. He took that as a yes.

“I really wish I could talk to birds as well as snakes,” Harry muttered. “Wait. Actually. _Raza, can you help with this conversation at all?”_

_“Sshassng.”_

_“What?”_

_“What, wormfood! I was sleeping!”_

_“I need you to help translate this conversation.”_

_“It is the middle of the night! I am sleeping!”_

_“No, you_ were _sleeping. Since you’re already awake you might as well help out.”_

_“I should bite you.”_

_“You won’t. Don’t you want to know why Aoife came back pissed at me with blood on her talons?”_

Pause. _“Fine.”_

Raza slithered out of Harry’s rumpled sheets, blinking irritably at the light hovering above all their heads. It was much more pleasant than the ugly electric bulbs but still a little harsh in the darkness. Harry dimmed it a bit.

 _“Why are you angry with my hatchling, bird?”_ Raza said, glaring at Aofie.

A stream of hoots, beak-clatterings, and body language cues followed. Raza’s hissing turned into something wordless that Harry didn’t really understand.

Finally, Aoife settled. She still looked annoyed but less so now.

 _“I don’t understand her well,”_ Raza admitted. _“All animals communicate best with their own species. It’s only because she’s spent so much time around a magical that she’s intelligent enough to communicate with me at all. She’s angry because she can’t talk to you, not at you so much. And I got something about problems with the letters.”_

“Problems.” Harry got out his wand and started spinning it around his fingers. The gesture was comforting even if he couldn’t actually cast anything with it. “Problems… like they’re not getting delivered kind of problems?”

Aoife hooted and hopped along the rail, fluttering her wings.

 _“That’s a yes,”_ Raza said.

 _“Got that, thanks._ Are they choosing not to respond?”

Between body language and Raza’s interpretations, he got a no, then a yes to they were _trying_ to write back, and then he asked—

“Is something stopping any letters from going back and forth?”

More happy hooting.

Harry frowned. That was really weird. “The blood on your talons. Does it belong to someone I tried to write?”

 _“Yes,”_ Raza said. “ _That’s a yes.”_

“What is going on,” Harry muttered. “This is… all… okay. Aoife, meet me at Mrs. Figg’s.”

He let her out the window, closed it, and changed quickly into Muggle clothes. There was no sense spending any of his precious money on his Muggle wardrobe when he had no intention of living Muggle for a day after his seventeenth birthday. Also, he didn’t care what the other orphans thought about his clothes, but in Slytherin it mattered.

Harry had shut down the secondhand robes comments the previous year but it was an easy insult for his stupider opponents to fall back on. Not really hard to deal with but still annoying. It would keep happening.

Which all meant he was stuck in third-hand jeans two sizes too big, a worn cotton T-shirt, and a flannel shirt that smelled faintly of sweat no matter how many times he washed it. Even magic hadn’t helped. Harry was going to burn this thing before next summer and the Sisters could get him something else.

There was still some of his parchment left. Harry had meant to owl order more with some of his few remaining sickles if he ran out, but then he hadn’t actually had a reason to use much except for homework. He chewed his lip for a few minutes before he used one of the last three rolls to write a brief letter to Theo. There was plenty of Muggle paper around the orphanage but that wouldn’t go over well with the Notts.

He locked his room behind him with magic when he was done. Raza’s complaints echoed from the hallway’s shadows as Harry sneaked away. Sister Agatha was on duty tonight and she wouldn’t be sleeping so he had to get creative.

Luckily, he was skinny and still fit through the window in the bathroom. The problem was that his room was on the second floor and he couldn’t just drop.

 _“Here’s hoping I don’t just die,”_ Harry muttered, and swung away from the windowsill.

His fingers found the drainpipe, scrabbled, gripped. Heart pounding, Harry braced his feet on the building and started to inch his way down. The brackets complained about his weight but they held.

Raza just wound his way down the pipe and beat Harry to the ground. _“Finally,”_ he said when Harry’s feet hit dirt. _“You landplodders are so slow.”_

 _“It’s not my fault I was born with legs,”_ Harry said, peering around before he darted into the bushes. Going across the front lawn and down the driveway would be way too easy to see if any of the Sisters got up for a late-night walk. Some of them, the older nuns, slept lightly, and it was a nice night. 

Harry crossed the street and found a deep patch of shade under an oak tree next to Mrs. Figg’s house. Her windows were dark and the whole place was silent.

A soft downdraft was his only warning. Harry raised a hand and Aoife landed on his arm. “Okay,” he muttered, tying the scroll one-handed to her leg. “For Theo, again. Bring his reply back here if there is one. Don’t try to come to the orphanage, I’ll drop by tomorrow and the day after at midnight to wait for you. I’m assuming you had a reason last time but try not to claw him up too badly, yeah?”

Aoife nibbled his ear.

“Ow,” Harry said, grinning.

The owl hooted, sounding weirdly similar to a laugh, and took off.

 _“You like her more than you like landplodders,”_ Raza noticed from the ground.

 _“Yeah, well.”_ Harry watched Aoife’s white figure disappear into the night. _“She’s a bird. A smart bird, but still a bird. She’s not about to betray me or hurt me.”_

Two nights later, Harry sneaked out again. Raza didn’t bother to come, so he was on his own in Mrs. Figg’s garden when Aoife appeared and landed on a bush next to him.

There was a letter tied to her let.

_Harry,_

_Your last letter told me that you haven’t received anything from me so far. I have not heard from you, either. I was wondering why your owl showed up and attacked me a few days ago and I had my father’s business associate look into things. There are owl wards up around wherever you’re living. I didn’t go, seeing as I’m 12, but the business associate did. There’s a spell on the envelope so when you open it, we’ll know. Someone will come to pick you up the day after that. She’ll say “pineapple” so you know this isn’t some ridiculously convoluted plot to kill the Boy Who Lived._

_I wrote Longbottom and Bole so they know you’re not blowing them off. Try not to kill any of the Muggles, there might be an investigation and that would complicate things._

_Theo Nott_

“Initiative,” Harry said, smirking a bit. “I can work with that. Thanks, Aoife.”

“Potter, there’s someone here for you,” Sister Agatha said stiffly. “Come to Sister Rachel’s office.”

Harry didn’t look up from his book. “Be there in a moment.”

She huffed and glared.

Harry waited until she turned and left before he jumped into action. Pissing the nuns off was fun, and worth a thirty-second delay, but he still wanted out of here as soon as possible.

He chucked the book in his open and mostly-packed trunk, tugged on the stupid flannel with a sneer he couldn’t help, and slammed the trunk shut. It bumped behind him down the stairs. Raza complained about the noise from Harry’s leather messenger bag. Other kids peeked at him from behind their doors.

Sister Rachel was in her office with a vaguely familiar woman in neat Muggle clothing. She was tall, square-jawed, brown-haired, and pretty in the vaguely terrifying way of a statue.

“Hi,” Harry said, beaming at her. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course,” she said, smiling back. It probably fooled Sister Rachel but Harry could tell it was just a mask. “Theo and his father are really sorry they couldn’t be here, but they had an errand in the city. They’ll meet us at the house. Theo said you loved pineapple, so I’ve made sure there will be some with dinner.”

“Harry, do you know this woman?” Sister Rachel said.

“Yes?” He blinked at her in fake confusion. “She’s here because my friend Theo, from school, he invited me over for a few days.”

Sister Rachel frowned at the woman. “You’ve mentioned this Theodore and his father. Is there a woman in the family?”

The woman didn’t blink. “Theodore’s mother passed several years ago. I stand in as his governess when his father has business.”

“Hm.” Sister Rachel frowned at the woman for several more seconds.

Harry had a pretty good idea of what caused her disapproval, and he didn’t care for it. “Sister Rachel?” he prompted. “I’d like to get going. Just for a few days.”

“This Theodore goes to your school?” Sister Rachel said, finally looking away from the other woman.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Not a single person in the office was fooled by the innocent little schoolboy mask.

“I suppose you may go,” Sister Rachel said stiffly. “For five days only.”

“Thank you, Sister Rachel!”

“Mm.”

He felt her eyes boring into his spine on the way out, and it rankled, but Harry dealt with it.

In the hallway, he and the woman eyed each other. She had to be close to six feet tall.

“Larkin Haigh,” she said.

“Harry Potter.”

Ms. Haigh raised an eyebrow. “I was aware, yes. This is your trunk?”

He nodded.

“Bring it along, then. We can Apparate from outside the wards.”

“One problem,” Harry said, lugging the trunk along after her. “There’s a Squib across the street. One of Dumbledore’s friends. She’ll notice if I’m not with the rest of the kids for church on Sunday.”

Ms. Haigh sighed. “Well, let’s see what kinds of wards she has on her home.”

Mrs. Figg, conveniently, had only some basic wards, none of which had been put there by her. “Someone’s keeping an eye on this woman as much as she’s keeping an eye on you,” Ms. Haigh muttered, fingering her wand. She and Harry stood on the edge of the road across from Mrs. Figg’s. “I can’t confund her.”

“I’ll handle it,” Harry said. “Give me… twenty minutes.”

“What do you want me to do, sit here?”

He shrugged and laid a hand on his trunk. It looked like an idle gesture but he was pumping as much power into it as he could. His things were _his_ things and he wasn’t about to let her at them. “I imagine you could Apparate somewhere for a cup of tea and back in that time.”

“Hm.”

The _crack_ of her Apparition reached him just as Harry walked up Mrs. Figg’s front steps. He grinned a little and knocked.

“Harry, dear!” The little old Squib beamed at him when she opened the door. “Come in, come in…”

“Thank you, Mrs. Figg,” he said, stepping in and holding his breath. He’d found that the smell wasn’t as bad if he didn’t breathe until he’d been in the house a few seconds. “How have you been?”

“Oh, well, the same as last week, not much really changes around here,” she said, leading him into her kitchen and settling him at the table. Harry took the same chair as usual, the one with the least cat hair on it. “And yourself?”

“I got a surprise visit this morning,” Harry said. “One of the kids in Muggle school… He and I lost touch last year, but he was… you know, my only real friend, and he wrote me a few weeks ago. His aunt just arrived to pick me up for a few days, and I wanted to let you know I’ll be gone for a bit.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, dear!” Mrs. Figg beamed at him and handed over a mug of tea. “Who is he?”

“His name is Henry Williamson,” Harry said.

“Henry and Harry, how sweet… It’s so good of you to keep up contact with your Muggle friends, dear, too many Muggleborns have to choose between one world and the other when they get their letter, even if they don’t realize it.”

Harry sipped his tea. “Which do they usually choose?”

“Oh…” Mrs. Figg frowned, trying to remember. “My brother used to talk about this all the time, you know. One of his best friends was Muggleborn. Very passionate. Something like sixty percent accept the Ministry’s offer, even those who go to Ignacio’s Bridge instead of Hogwarts.”

“Ignacio’s Bridge?” he said.

She blinked at him. “The other school, dearie.”

“There’s… another school?”

“Well, yes, you didn’t think Hogwarts held all the magical children of Britain, did you?” She laughed.

Harry searched for words. “I thought—I thought most of the others were homeschooled.”

“Most born to magical families are, or they seek apprenticeships, and sit their OWLs and NEWTs on their own. There are about two thousand children in Ignacio’s Bridge, compared to… six hundred in Hogwarts? A bit more? I was never too good with numbers, I’m afraid. Of those… hmm, about thirty or forty are Muggleborn. And in Ignacio’s Bridge, it’s about a hundred?”

“What happens to the other Muggleborns?” Harry said.

Mrs. Figg frowned at one of her cats. “Oh, dear, Pinkie needs a grooming, he’s got matted fur again…”

“Mrs. Figg?” he prompted.

“Ah—sorry, dear, what was that?”

“The other Muggleborns,” he said. “Who don’t go to Hogwarts or Ignacio’s Bridge. What happens to them? Why don’t they go to one of our schools? Do they get apprenticeships?”

She laughed. “No, dearie, they haven’t the connections to get a magical apprenticeship. The others’ families don’t want them joining us. Their magic is bound and their memories wiped so they can live as Muggles.”

It felt like a rock had just been magicked into Harry’s stomach. Forty percent. Forty percent of Muggleborns, every year, _chose_ to stay away. At _eleven_ they were forced to make that choice. At eleven, most kids had their parents’ opinions, so it wasn’t even the _kids_ choosing, it was Muggles choosing for them. Muggles who might be the decent few and treated their _odd_ children well, or Muggles like the Dursleys who hated anything that stood out—the Ministry just _handing_ the Muggles a golden opportunity to cripple them. No wonder some of the purebloods ranted about magic dying out. Forty percent of the new magical children, every year, opting out of magic!

“Harry, dear, are you quite all right?”

He snapped back into the kitchen. “Yes, sorry, Mrs. Figg. Just thinking. If… you don’t mind me asking… is there some kind of database of population numbers?”

“I think the Ministry runs one,” she said. “Their archives are open to the public. You can request things for a small fee, by owl. If you’re really interested, I might be able to owl Walden’s friends, and see if any of them have his notes anymore, he passed, oh, ten or so years ago…”

The Ministry would have to wait until after his birthday, then. “I would really appreciate that,” he said with a wavering, sweet-innocent-child smile. “It’s just that, you know, growing up Muggle, I don’t really understand a lot of things, I want to learn about this world more.”

“It’s so wonderful,” Mrs. Figg said, beaming. “You’ve certainly taken to it like a duck to water.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, grinning wider. “Oh, and didn’t you say one of your cats was about to have kittens?”

He kept her talking for fifteen more minutes, said goodbye, and left the house with a great deal of relief.

Haigh was sitting on his trunk at the edge of the road. “This is the most boring town in existence,” she said.

“I’m aware,” Harry muttered. “I grew up here.”

“I am so sorry. Have you Apparated before?”

“No.”

“Hold my hand, do _not_ let go, and don’t scream.”

He did as she was told, clutching his trunk in the other hand.

There was a _crack_ , and then the sickening feeling of being squeezed through a very small tube, and Harry couldn’t see but not like his eyes quit working, it was like suddenly he didn’t _have_ eyes—

Then his body fell back together and he stumbled. They were nowhere near Nup End anymore.

“Welcome to Kieldren Heights,” she said, pointing to a massive stone house sitting on a hill. “Ancestral home of House Nott.”

“Where are we?” Harry said, looking around. He and Haigh had appeared at the base of the hill. If he squinted, he could make out a Muggle road, and then a lake. Small, round-topped mountains covered with pine trees stretched away under the summer sun.

“Muggles call this area Northumberland,” she said. “There’s several families’ manors in the area. They pulled some strings and got a few national reserves and parks declared to make it easier for us to hide. Come on. No Apparition through the wards; we’ve got to walk through and then I’ll jump us up to the house.”

“That’s not a house, it’s a castle,” Harry muttered, hefting his trunk and setting off with her. This seemed to be a regular occurrence; there was a faint but noticeable path worn into the ground.

“That’s a manor,” she corrected. “Most wizarding families have an ancestral seat, although a lot of the unnobled families have lost their seats to the Muggles because they couldn’t afford all the tricks the nobles worked out to keep them away. And don’t worry, Theodore insisted I be sworn to secrecy before he sent me after you. I won’t tell where I found you.” 

Weirdly up-front for a Slytherin. Unless—“Out of curiosity, what was your House in Hogwarts?” Harry said.

Haigh laughed. “Hufflepuff.”

That explained that, then.

“We’re through.” She stopped. “Hand.”

Another _crack_ and another few seconds of unpleasant squeezing, and they were standing in front of the house—manor. On closer investigation, it looked like an improbable miniature castle. Turrets stuck out where you wouldn’t expect them to, massive and irregular windows of stained and clear glass spotted its outsides, and the manor appeared to have three different-sized wings branching off the main part. Some of the balconies were basically saying _fuck you_ to physics. But even with its bizarre appearance, the house had a sort of quiet dignity and power, a sense you shouldn’t try to get inside without permission.

It looked like no Muggle building Harry had ever seen, and he loved it.

Haigh marched right up to the massive oak doors. They were set at the top of a staircase that dead-ended in what looked like a very overgrown garden.

“The grounds around the Manor used to be beautiful,” Haigh said quietly, seeing where Harry was looking. “Magical gardening is not like the Muggle. It’s an art form that takes decades to master, very delicate and particular. It is an honor for a garden artist to agree to work for a noble family’s land and they never do it for the money, only the chance to have free rein without worrying about Muggles seeing some of their more obviously magical ideas. For over ten years, it has been social suicide to give that honor to the Notts.”

Harry nodded slowly. “What manor homes still have magical gardens?”

Haigh heaved open one of the oak doors and led him into an entrance hall. It might have been gorgeous once, with the stained glass windows and marble floors, but now it was dusty and felt abandoned. “The Weasleys have one, but the turnover rate for artists is really high. The matriarch insists on involving herself with the gardening and she has… strong opinions. Tends to piss the artists off so they quit, but the family’s political status means more keep coming. The Vances, the McKinnons, the Pritchards, the Shacklebolts, the Longbottoms, and the Macmillans all have gorgeous active gardens. All Integration Party families.” Harry couldn’t help but notice how much information she was giving him _other_ than magical homes. Clearly she’d seen through his trick to indirect get hold of what families were powerful enough to have artists lining up outside their doors. Except, unlike a Slytherin, Haigh had decided to go ahead and give him what he’d asked for, plus a little more. “The Smiths, Haughsmoores, Boneses, and Slughorns of the Neutrals have well-kept gardens as well. The Rosiers used to but the last Heir died in a Death Eater mask and his daughter’s in the orphanage. Only reasons the Ministry didn’t take their seat is because the wards held them off.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I’ve heard about the orphanage before, but not… in detail.”

“Ask Theo.” Haigh glanced over her shoulder at him. “Come on. I’m supposed to take you to Viscount Nott. He said ‘immediately’ but I’m guessing you want to get out of Muggle clothes first, so we can go to your room.”

He’d asked enough questions already, so Harry just nodded and followed her. They left the entrance hall through one of many doors along its sides and went up a grand marble staircase.

It turned out not to matter that he didn’t ask questions, because Haigh narrated as they went. “Three quarters of the Manor have been closed off. House-elves cost money to maintain and there’s no one to live in those rooms, anyway. We pretty much stick to the west wing.” She grinned over her shoulder at him. “I brought you in the front because it’s more impressive. Family has two house-elves, a kitchen, the library, a few bedrooms, and a drawing room that they use regularly. And the Quidditch pitch. All the brooms are pretty dated but Theo likes flying anyway. He’s put you in the room across from his.”

There was something odd in her voice, there, when she talked about Harry’s room. He tensed a little.

“In case you’re wondering where all the furniture is, they pretty much sold it all to keep the Manor,” Haigh said quietly, when she saw him look at a blank patch of wall. It was a little lighter than the surrounding area like a portrait had once hung there. “That was an original tapestry of the battle between Arthur Pendragon and Mordred. It had been in the family for centuries; Morgana le Fay herself gifted it to them for Galadriel Nott’s aid in the battle. He sacrificed himself to save Arthur minutes before he fought his way through to Mordred. The Crouches have it now.”

“Haigh is not a noble family,” he observed.

“No.” She shrugged one shoulder. “No, it’s not. We’re sworn vassals of the Notts like the Crabbes are vassals of the Malfoys, which is like being… noble by association, I guess. Crabbes are nobles on their own, of course, but the family’s gotten right pathetic since they were nobled in the first place. Even with their fortunes fallen, I still serve.”

“And you don’t… wish to leave?” Harry said, raising an eyebrow. To stick around even with the family this bad…

Haigh shook her head. “Slytherins. Of course I don’t. Viscount Nott has been like a father to me since my parents died of dragon pox. I was the one who held Theo at his mother’s grave since Thoros wasn’t allowed to leave the manor. Should the Ministry break our wards and take the house and throw them into the Muggle world, I’ll be right there with them.”

“Admirable loyalty,” he said. “You were in Hufflepuff for a reason.”

“As are you in Slytherin,” she said.

He grinned.

They stepped off the staircase onto the fourth floor, a winding hallway empty but free of dust, and well-lit thanks to several skylights. Wooden doors bound in iron lined the hall, and witchlight burned in sconces, offering steady clear light.

“Here you are.” Again that weird tone. Haigh pushed open the last door on the left.

Harry very cautiously stepped over the threshold. The room didn’t appear to be anything special, other than huge—the four-poster bed, dresser, and desk barely took up any of the room. Another door off the bedroom probably led to an in-suite bathroom. “Is there something special about this room?” he asked.

Haigh snorted from the door. Harry hauled his trunk over to the foot of the bed. “You could say that. This is where the family puts high-ranking visitors. Yet you, Heir Potter, are only a baby Lord.”

“What can I say,” he drawled, “Theo likes me.”

“Uh-huh.” She leaned on the doorframe. “He’s at the Greengrasses, by the way, dealing with Heir things. He’ll be back in about an hour. Change quickly.”

He had his trunk open before she even closed the door. Harry pulled out one of his school robes, stripped off his Muggle things, and pulled it over his head, along with one of two pairs of trousers designed to be worn under the robes. His Muggle trainers looked awful under it all but at least the robes had been made with some room to grow and he could mostly hide the shoes if he stood carefully.

Lastly, he pulled out his wand. For a few seconds Harry just let himself trace his fingers over it and relish the feeling of having it in his hands and being able to work magic again. Theo had told him, once, that the Notts’ wards canceled the Trace. Then he shook off his thoughts and started hitting his hair with a pile of hair charms. They didn’t work as well just thrown on randomly like this, but they’d hold for the next thirty minutes at least, and that was hopefully all he needed to get through this meeting with Viscount Thoros Nott.

Harry just prayed to Merlin that the noble manners he’d picked up so far would be enough for today.

Haigh looked him over and nodded in approval when he stepped out. “Not bad. Glasses need work.”

He aimed a cold look her direction.

“Theo wasn’t kidding, you’re creepy,” she said. “C’mon, he’s this way.”

Haigh led him halfway back along the hall and down one floor via a different staircase. Harry spent the whole way trying to decide if he was annoyed or not that Theo had described him as _creepy_.

“Here.” Haigh stopped outside a set of doors that looked just like all the rest. “Be polite. He also knows about your childhood and he won’t be expecting you to know every nitnoid noble etiquette rule.”

Harry nodded stiffly.

Viscount Nott’s bedroom was large, airy, well-lit, and stuffed with books. He paused just inside the doors and looked around with not a little awe. It was basically a library with a bed by the big bay windows.

“Heir Potter, I presume,” a raspy voice said from the bed.

“Heir Harry of House Potter,” Harry said, stepping forward. He approached the bed and paused just within view of its occupant to bow, deeper than he would have for a teacher.

“Tip for the future, boy, when meeting a noble of equal or higher rank on his or her own property, you greet them first. Don’t wait”

“It is an honor, then, Viscount Nott.”

“You learn quickly. Good.” Nott struggled to sit up, jamming a pillow under his own back.

He was more in the light, now, and Harry could get a better look at him. There was something of Theo’s narrow features and skinny frame visible in his father’s face and shoulders, and they had the same nose, but there the resemblance stopped. Nott’s hair was gray and lank and cut shorter than his son’s, and instead of the skinniness of an active boy, his was sickly and weak.

“I look awful, I’m aware.”

“I was just comparing you to Theo,” Harry said, truthfully. “I see the resemblance.”

“He’s the spitting image of me at his age. You, on the other hand…” Nott narrowed his eyes, and even with the rest of him looking on the verge of collapse, his gaze was still sharp and clever. “Similar to your father, but not identical.”

“I’m told I have my mother’s eyes,” Harry said.

Nott wheezed out a laugh. “More often than you’d like, I’m sure.”

Harry was silent.

“I saw you liked the books.”

“I like reading,” Harry said. “Knowledge is power, when properly applied.”

Nott smirked. “How clever. A Muggle quote, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Somehow I don’t think you’re often mistaken,” Harry said, to cover his surprise that Nott recognized a Muggle quote.

“Not, I’m not. Hasn’t been much to do for the last ten years but read,” he said, waving around the room. “I ventured into Muggle literature eventually. I suppose with a population that large it was inevitable they’d turn out their share of brilliant minds.”

“Wish I’d met _that_ kind of Muggle,” Harry muttered.

Nott laughed. “Ten years in bed has tried my patience, Potter, so I’m going to be blunt. When my son first mentioned his… association with you, I assumed he was playing you.”

“You weren’t the only one,” Harry said.

“Most of Slytherin no doubt thought the same,” Nott said. “And I’m sure you suspected he was trying.”

“I still think he was,” Harry said. “At the beginning, at least.”

Nott shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I detest metaphors but this one suits, so I will use it. Our star has fallen, and almost been suffocated by the circumstances. Yours, on the other hand, is rising. Theo is a clever boy. Clever enough to notice where the future power lies.”

“With those who take it,” Harry said.

“Yes…” Nott examined him. “I see what he meant. Indeed, Potter, with those who take it. I assume you plan to.”

Harry smiled a bit.

“Don’t give my son cause to regret his allegiance.”

“I don’t plan on it,” Harry said quietly. “Unlike… certain others, I don’t plan to engage in childish acts of violence and terror.”

Nott snorted. “That wasn’t subtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“So you know what I am.”

“I know you used to have a certain tattoo on your arm,” Harry said. “I know you managed to talk your way into a room full of books in your own manor while Lucius Malfoy rots in Azkaban.”

“I’m only here because I’m dying,” Nott said.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Really. I hadn’t noticed.”

Another rasping laugh. “Curse damage. Alice Longbottom’s wand, although I don’t know that her son knows that. I had a choice of a painkiller regimen that would ruin my mind, or live the rest of my life in excruciating pain but keep my mental faculties. I’m sure most of the _Light_ were praying I’d take the former, but I needed to stay focused and raise my son to be the Heir our family needed. He has been the acting Lord since he was five.”

No wonder Theo was messed up. That much pressure from so young would affect any kid, no matter how strong, or how well prepared.

“Unfortunately, moving makes it worse. I’ll probably sleep for a few hours just to recover from this conversation. I have a spell that holds books up and turns the pages for me. Means I only have to move my eyes. Still hurts. And it gets worse the longer it goes, until eventually my heart will give out from the strain.”

“I’m surprised a Longbottom knew a spell like that.”

Nott laughed so hard he shook and tears sprang to his eyes. “Dammit, Potter, don’t amuse me. The Ministry authorized their Aurors to use a broad range of Dark Arts in the last years cleaning up our ranks. Made it harder to tell who’s who without the brand, and they got desperate. Clipped me in eighty-four. I was one of the last. The Longbottoms have their share of blood on their hands and Dark curses in their wands, if you look back far enough. They just convince themselves _they_ did it for the Greater Good.”

“Didn’t you?” Harry said.

“I too used Dark magic,” Nott agreed. “And I did it in pursuit of a vision I believed in, even once the wizard leading it became a monster and a madman. The difference is I didn’t cast moral judgments on my enemies for using the same magic I aimed at them.”

Logical. Harry was glad he’d spent years listening to the snakes’ weirdly philosophical life lessons, most of which he hadn’t understood, because it helped him keep track of what Viscount Nott said now.

“You’re at a disadvantage against your House mates because you don’t have access to a library like ours, the Malfoys’, even the Greengrass’,” he said. “While you’re here, have at ours. Borrow our books if you want and owl them back to me before you go to Hogwarts so no one catches you.”

“Thank you, Viscount Nott,” Harry said.

Nott grinned. If he could walk, he’d make a killing in a Muggle haunted house with that expression. “Don’t thank me, Potter. We are getting as much out of this as you.”

Harry grinned back. “I know. Why else do you think I’m trusting you even this much?”

“Oh, yes, Theo’s chosen well,” Nott said, still grinning.


	2. Several Rendezvous

Haigh was waiting in the hall. “Good, he didn’t kill you.” 

“Was that in the cards?” Harry said. 

She snickered. “I mean. It wasn’t  _ not _ in the cards.” 

“Harry.” 

Harry looked up. “Theo.” 

His—closest ally sauntered in the door like he owned the place, which, Harry supposed, he did. “Welcome to Kieldren Heights,” he said. 

“You know, Haigh said those exact words an hour and a half ago,” Harry said, stuffing his last robe into the wardrobe. “How was the Greengrass’?” 

“Boring, as per usual. The little sister flirts with everything that moves. She’ll be a terror in ten years. I sipped champagne and made nice with the adults and didn’t offend anyone,” Theo said. “What in Circe’s name is  _ that?” _

“A Muggle shirt,” Harry said, holding the flannel in two fingers. “Hand-me-down but it still stinks.” 

“It looks like a rag.” 

“That’s all it should be.” Harry dropped it on the floor. “Or just a little entertainment.” 

He set it on fire with a thought and grinned, watching the flames consume the fabric. They were wizard flames and burned faster and whiter than Muggle fires. He’d always wondered why the fire he called as a kid was a different color than the winter fireplace, and reading about magical fire in the Charms book had been really interesting. 

When the shirt was ashes on the stone, Harry let the fire die and looked up. 

Theo was staring at him, not the shirt. “Wandless magic.” 

“Observant,” Harry said, smirking. 

“You announced it to the whole House last year in that duel, and some of them still don’t believe it,” Theo said. “Or were convinced it was accidental. A fluke.” 

“And now you know better.” 

Theo nodded. “Are you going to teach the rest of them that?” 

Harry toed the ashes. “Eventually.” 

“Any other tricks up your sleeve I should know about?” Theo said. 

“Nothing you should know about,” Harry said with a thin smile of warning. “Yet.” 

Theo nodded, took the hint. “I’ll get one of the elves to clean that, then.” 

“Do.”

He studied the house-elf, Tippet, with fascination. They really were strange little creatures. Blessed with magic wizards couldn’t match, but servants. Not just resigned to their place but actually fond of it. Theo threatened the creature with clothes to show Harry and it broke down in wails, at which point Theo apologized and praised it and sent it into tears of happiness. 

“What?” he said when he saw Harry looking. “If their masters are kind to them it makes them like fifty times as loyal.” 

“I knew I liked you for a reason,” Harry said. 

Theo grinned impishly. “So you  _ do _ like me.” 

“More than anyone else I know,” Harry said. 

“That’s not saying much, I’m fairly sure you’d murder most people you know if you had a half-decent reason.” 

“Like you can talk,” Harry scoffed. 

Theo’s grin widened. “Point. Do you like the room?” 

“It is… more than adequate. Thank you.” 

“We both know you don’t have to thank me,” Theo said. “C’mon. We have brooms and everyone says the Potters were born to fly.” 

He was right. 

Without Hooch watching and restrictions on what they were allowed to do, Harry kicked off and fell in love. It was like all his masks and plans and worries and  _ everything _ stayed behind him on the ground, and he could just be… a kid, or someone without expectations. Without pressure. 

One look at Theo’s face told him his ally liked flying for the same reason. 

“I reckon you can make the team this year,” Theo said, after Harry caught a Snitch for the fifth time in a row. “That’s a professional-grade Snitch, not like the ones they use in school matches. Bit old but still works. And you’re playing like it’s a golf ball.” 

Harry blinked at him, coming to a stop in midair. He almost forgot the Snitch clutched in his hand. “You know what golf is?” 

“Haigh’s a halfblood,” Theo said. “Sometimes she takes me out into the Muggle world. I don’t love it there but it’s nice to not have people hate me on sight.” 

“And your father doesn’t care?” 

Theo slid his feet off the broom’s stirrups and kicked them, looking down over the hills below. They could see some scattered Muggle homes if they squinted. “He knows it’s something I’ll never get in our world, and he trusts Haigh.” 

Translation: Viscount Nott knew what it was doing to his son to carry the whole family’s responsibilities, and let him escape sometimes, even if it was to the Muggle world. 

“D’you ever miss them?” Theo blurted. 

Harry glared at him. 

Theo blanched. “Sorry.” 

Theo had been honest with him. “No.” 

“…oh.” 

Once he’d been soft. Once he’d fought back, but regretted the harm he caused people, avoided hurting them, avoided them so he wouldn’t have to hurt them at all. Once he’d lain in bed and thought he’d go crazy wishing for something he would never have. Friends. Parents. Trust. 

Harry had killed that part of himself by the time he was six and never looked back. 

“Library?” Theo said. 

“Library,” Harry agreed. “And tomorrow, I need to go to Diagon.” 

“Want me to come?” Theo said. 

Harry landed neatly on the field, Theo beside him. “Depends. If I were to see Longbottom for a bit, would you scare his grandmother off?” 

“Yeah, probably.” 

“Great, you can come along and ‘run into’ us after I get Longbottom on his own.” 

Theo frowned as he locked the brooms away. “How are you going to do that? She’s so overprotective it’s not even funny.” 

“I’ll work it out.” 

“Gringotts!” 

The Floo fire whooshed up and tugged him into the fireplace. 

Harry stumbled out into Gringotts’ marble alley. A goblin snickered next to him. Harry brushed himself off with an exaggerated sigh. 

Theo followed him. “Still not got the hang of that, hm?” 

“I will eventually,” Harry said, nodding to the goblin. 

Theo stepped out of the Floo room first and glanced around the bank. “We’re good.” 

Harry followed. His eyes were brown today and his hair dirty blond thanks to a glamour spell from Haigh, but anyone who looked closely would recognize him. Especially with the damn glasses. That was going to be the  _ first _ thing he did when he got his money. The second was a better trunk, the third robes, the fourth decent potions supplies, and the fifth Mr. Jigger’s bookstore. 

“See you by the ice cream place in three hours?” Theo checked. 

“Yes.” Harry was already walking away. “Don’t be late and don’t let the Longbottoms see you.” 

Griphook found him halfway across the atrium. “Mr. Potter! I thought I’d be seeing you today.” 

“Good to be back,” Harry said with his usual half-bow. “Do we need your office?” 

“No indeed.” The atrium was busy and no one had given them a second glance. “Your funds have been authorized. At your disposal are two hundred extra galleons linked to your Gringotts wallet. Spend it wisely.” 

“I’m twelve,” Harry said. “Twelve-year-old boys aren’t known for wisdom.” 

Griphook snorted. “I don’t know you well, Mr. Potter, but I’d hazard a guess you haven’t been a child for some time now.” 

Harry was quiet for a few minutes. “No, I guess not.” 

The goblin went back to his position—he seemed to be doing duty as a teller today—and Harry tugged his hat low. 

There was a magical optometrist near Scribblings’ Writing Instruments. They were the luxury writing supplies store. Harry eyed an eagle-feather quill hovering gently in their front window for a few seconds.  _ One day.  _

A pudgy man in blue robes looked up when Harry walked in. “Hello, there, what can I do for you today?” 

“An eye exam and new glasses, please,” Harry said politely. 

“Of course. Have you been a customer with us before?” 

“Unfortunately not.” 

“All right. Prescription card, please.” 

Harry shifted a bit. “I… don’t have one. Muggleborn.” 

“Ah.” The man smiled. “I see. We can get you started, then. Malinra!” 

A woman in white robes stuck her head out of the back almost instantly. “Mm? Oh, hello!” 

“She’s our optometrist,” the man said, sitting back down at the desk. 

“Right this way, dearie,” Malinra said. 

“Thank you,” Harry said to both of them. He glanced over slowly shifting clouds of glasses hovering around the room. “I’d also like to pick out new frames today, if that’s not too big a problem?” 

“Not at all,” Malinra said. “You can do that when you leave and come back in a few hours to pick them up. Crafting the lenses takes some time.” 

_ Several days for the Muggles.  _ “Of course, thanks.” 

They got until Malinra was sitting him down in a padded chair before she figured out who he was. Harry knew because she choked and her hands froze fitting something over his face. 

“Hi,” he said with a shy smile. “Harry Potter, nice to meet you.” 

“Harry—!” she squeaked. “Harry Potter! I… didn’t… I’m so sorry—”

_ You should be, idiot.  _ “Why would you be?” he said, smiling a little wider. “I didn’t introduce myself and you’ve treated me just fine. I mean… I wouldn’t want… to be like, preferentially treated or anything. Just because of… well, this.” He brushed a nervous hand over his scar. 

Malinra ate it up. “Oh, of course not, I imagine it’s difficult for you in public. I’m guessing you’d rather not have it shouted up and down the Alley today?” 

“What tipped you off?” he said with a light laugh. Harry gave her credit for the recovery. Seemed it was shock more than rabid-fan-excitement that got that first reaction. 

“Well, the hair and eye changes helped,” she said, winking. “Right, then, let’s get you settled… Just look into these lenses and sit very still. The enchantments take about thirty seconds to spit back your prescription.” 

Harry almost nodded and caught himself. “Right.” 

“Good catch,” Malinra said, fussing over something out of his line of sight. Two blue dots appeared in the blackness of the hood she’d planted on him. “You’d be surprised how many people shake it all over and knock the system out of calibration.” 

“People can be dense,” Harry said. 

She chuckled. “So world-weary.” 

_ World hasn’t been very nice to me.  _

“All right, starting now.” 

The blue lights turned green. Harry sat and gripped the arms of the chair very tightly. Being blind, helpless—he hated this. He should’ve asked how the hood worked. Should’ve made sure he knew what they were doing first. Stupid, trusting, he could go  _ blind _ from this, he had no idea what spells were on it, he didn’t know her at  _ all _ and people were backstabbing bastards—

“That’s you done.” Hands lifted the hood off. 

Harry blinked at the far wall. Light. He was fine. He could see. She hadn’t done anything. 

“You can go up front and Dake will help you get some frames and settle the payment.” 

Fine. He was fine. 

“Mr. Potter?” 

“Right! Sorry.” Harry snapped out of it and pasted his most charming mask on instantly, smiling at her. “That’s it?” 

“That’s it.” Malinra examined him, her cheerfulness gone. “You’re not just dodging paparazzi, are you, Mr. Potter?” 

“Not quite.” He looked down. Clearly she thought he was so twitchy because he feared for his life in public. Which, she wasn’t  _ wrong _ , but it wasn’t what made him freeze. He could still use it. “…sorry.” 

“My turn to tell  _ you _ that’s an unnecessary apology,” she said with a wink. “Your disguise is pretty convincing, by the way, most people look for the hair and eyes, I can tell you that. Head on up front. If Dake notices and makes a fuss, tell him I said to shut up and get on with it.” 

“Thanks,” Harry said, hopping down and heading out of the office. He added Malinra the optometrist to his short list of people who’d been decent to him. Granted, it might well have been his fame that made her so nice, but still. He remembered his debts and preferred to repay them. 

Dake looked up from his paperwork when Harry came out. “She’s got you sorted, then?” 

“Yes, sir, thank you.” 

“All right. Now let’s get you a pair of frames…” Dake waved his wand and several mirrors appeared, floating in front of Harry. His eyes widened a bit. Each of them showed a different view of him. One was head on, like usual, but the other four showed different angles of his face and the glasses on it. 

“Now, what kind of frames do you want? Wire or synthetic? Colorful or plain? Go for sturdy or elegant? Square or round?” 

“Ah… wire, please, and plain. Something simple,” Harry said. As he spoke, the clouds of glasses hovering around the elegant white-walled room went from drifting motion to purposeful, rearranging into new flocks. “But classy. And I think a square frame, please.” The round frames made his eyes wide and luminous, like an owl’s, and he didn’t like it. 

By the time he was done, there was one cloud of frames shifting around in front of him, all of them more or less matching the description he’d given. “This is incredible,” Harry said. “The spellwork to get them to act like that…” 

“Wasn’t easy,” Dake said with a grin. “I spent the better part of a decade on it. We’ve turned down a few opportunities to move somewhere a little more prestigious because of how annoying it would be to recreate the rune arrays. Also, I’m not one hundred percent sure how I did it. Lots of the enchantments are overlapping.” 

“Ever consider getting a rune expert in to look at it?” Harry said, flicking through the frames one by one. If he remembered correctly, Davis had an aunt who did runes and charms experimentation. He slipped a pair of dark gray metal frames on his nose and examined his reflection. 

“Well... yes, but…” Dake trailed off. “We couldn’t afford it.” 

Malinra popped out of the back. “I like those frames. What Dake is trying to say is that we don’t have a Ministry license for experimental runes.” 

“Malinra!” Dake said. 

Harry turned and frowned at her. “You need a  _ license?” _

“Calm down, Dake, it’s fine. Yeah, we would, or  _ he _ would, I’m no good with runes, and it costs a lot to get a license,” Malinra said. “At this point, we’d have to get a license and then do some creative bureaucratic storytelling to hide the fact that the enchantments have been going five years already.” 

“Wait,” Harry said. “You’ve kept your entire business here, in this tiny shop, for  _ nine years _ counting the time Dake said he spent on these—because of just one license? _ ” _

“You’re a smart kid,” Dake said. “And, psh,  _ not good with runes. _ You  _ built _ that hood thingy that streamlines the entire process.” 

Malinra blushed. “Yes, Harry, that’s pretty much it in a Snitch.” 

“What would happen to you?” Harry said, not even paying attention to the glasses anymore. Or his rules. He was ignorant here, but his instincts literally always screamed not to trust people and they’d shut up around Malinra, so he thought it should be fine. “If they found out.” 

Dake tensed. 

“I’m not going to turn you in or something,” Harry said. “I’m twelve, not an undercover Auror.” 

“Hitwizard,” Dake said. 

Harry blinked at him. 

Dake winced. “Sorry. It’d be a Hitwizard going undercover for something like this. Aurors take down Dark wizards, not optometrists using illegal runes. I have a bad habit of correcting people when I’m nervous.” 

“No, I appreciate it.” Harry really did. Now he wouldn’t have to look like an idiot in front of his classmates. That was exactly the kind of small detail Theo wouldn’t even think to explain. 

“Oh good.” Dake relaxed a little. “Loads of Muggleborns get really touchy when you try to correct them.” 

Malinra smacked his shoulder. “Not the time. We’d get a hefty fine that would probably put us into bankruptcy.” 

Harry looked at them both for a few long seconds, mind churning. He didn’t just need people like Theo, Davis, Longbottom, with political connections or heavy vaults; he needed the normal people to like him, too. People like Mr. Jigger and Malinra and Dake who ran bookstores and optometrist shops. 

Sometimes he actually thought Fate was  _ trying _ to get him to take over when opportunities this golden fell into his lap. 

“I’ll be sure to keep my mouth shut, then,” he said finally. “Wouldn’t want my new favorite optometrist to go out of business. I’ll take these.” He swapped the new frames off his face, put his old set back on, and handed the new ones to Dake. 

“Twenty galleons for the exam, frames, and time spent crafting and fitting new lenses,” Dake said. 

Harry wrote out a deposit slip, handed it to Dake so he could confirm it was the right amount, and slid it into the deposit pocket of his wallet. “How long until I should come back?” 

“Three hours,” Dake said. 

“Bye, Harry!” Malinra called on the way out. He smiled cheerfully over his shoulder and waved. 

Right before the door closed, he heard Dake say, “Wait— _ Harry?” _ and Malinra start to laugh. 

Smiling faintly, he wandered up Diagon. It hadn’t quite gotten into the big pre-school shopping rush that ate up the last three weeks of August, according to Mrs. Figg’s complaints about buying charmed yarn, but it was still busy. He relaxed back into the flow of people in robes, carrying wands, chattering about Quidditch and household charms and gnomes infesting their gardens and boggarts in the closets. 

Harry’s old trunk he sold to a used goods store for ten galleons, half what he’d originally paid but not a terrible deal for how worn it was. He bought a new one for seventy. It was still secondhand but in good condition, and it had three compartments—one for books, writing utensils, and notebooks, one for potions ingredients and other magical supplies, and one for clothes and random things. The shopkeeper said it was a pretty standard student’s trunk, and showed him the featherlight feature that made it easier to carry. Harry just market it as yet another thing that had been kept from him. 

At Madam Malkin’s, he got a full wardrobe. All secondhand, and fitted with growth charms. The charms meant the robes wouldn’t last longer than three years before the fabric fell apart, but they’d resize to fit him all three years and save him money in the long run. Fully closed casual robes, one set of pajamas, trousers for under his school robes, a set of temperature- and growth-charmed boots like Griphook recommended, and a set of dress robes all together cost a hundred and twelve galleons. He was down a hundred and eighty-two and he’d only made two of his stops. Harry stifled a sigh. 

Potions ingredients were easy. He just walked into Gaspirage’s Apothecary and asked for an extended level four kit, paid forty galleons, and walked out wincing. It was supposed to get a student through third and fourth years, but  _ still. _

Mr. Jigger wasn’t in the store, having left it to the care of a shop assistant, a manky-haired young man with a nasally voice who seemed to know the books like the back of his hand. Harry would lay all his remaining money on Ravenclaw. 

He only had a few new schoolbooks this year, and found them easily. The hardest part of  _ that _ stop was restricting himself to only an hour and a half if he wanted to clear everything else up on time to meet Longbottom. The best part was that, being a used bookstore, Mr. Jigger stocked a  _ lot _ of old books. The old ones had escaped some of what Theo called “the Ministry’s oppressive censorship,” which Harry was pretty sure had been copied straight from his dad’s political rants. And the history books got overlooked a lot. There was really good information about the Dark Arts, curses, wards, and magic that you’d never find in practical magic books anymore. One book was from the fifteen hundreds, rattled threateningly when Harry turned the pages, and was thicker than his forearm. Worn letters on the cover spelled out  _ An Introduction to Magicke. _ He bought it even though it was two whole galleons on its own, and the man working the shop looked at him weird but handed it over in a special protective case with a warning to never try and duplicate it.

Harry found a corner of the Alley and sat down to put all the books in the bookshelf section of his trunk. It was enlarged on the inside and the shelves fit cunningly together, expanding when you pulled them out or shifting around inside the trunk so you could search through them all without expanding them all the way. Some of these were going to be really useful for class this year. Or for if people called a duel challenge again. 

At three o’clock on the dot, he was sitting outside Florean Fortescue’s, eating a single scoop of chocolate ice cream out of a bowl. Harry had a bit of a sweet tooth and he liked ice cream as much as the next boy, but he liked self-control more. He eyed the family at the next table over, both of whose children were stuffing themselves on ice cream concoctions that looked like they’d required a team of architects to make. They weren’t as bad as what he remembered as the Dursleys, not even close, but still. You’d never catch  _ him _ eating something like that. 

“—foolish sugary nonsense!  _ No _ , Neville, how many times have I said, you’re already pudgy! Look at  _ those _ children, do you want to end up like them?” 

The family next to Harry all turned and stared at the speaker. Then again, Harry would never be so stupid as to make fun of someone else’s eating choices where they could hear him. 

Then the name clicked and he sighed. 

“You may get  _ one _ scoop of a  _ plain _ flavor,” the screechy voice continued. “In a bowl, no cones.” 

Harry braced himself and made sure his mask was  _ very _ secure.  _ Pleasant _ , he told himself.  _ Polite, charming, intelligent but not too much, a little shy, and above all,  _ _ pleasant _ _. _

“Okay, Gran,” a quiet voice said. 

Longbottom. The kid who’d been pretty fiery once you got him going, who’d actually had a spine and a good brain and plenty of power to spare once Harry got him to open up a little. Longbottom, who he eventually wanted. 

Harry didn’t have friends in the usual sense, he’d be the first to admit that, but Theo was  _ his _ and one day Longbottom would be, and loyalty went both ways. 

Quickly, he slid his own half-empty bowl under the table and kicked it aside. It skittered out of sight. Then he stood up and turned around. “Neville? I  _ thought _ I heard you! I was waiting to order until you got here. C’mon, I’ve never really been allowed ice cream, d’you want to split the Sugar Supreme? Oh, hi, sorry, you must be Lady Longbottom.” 

The lady in question blinked at him. And, Merlin, no wonder Longbottom was cowed so easily, because this woman was six feet tall and wore a hat with a literal vulture perched on it. Not just any vulture but a Nigerian one, a magical breed known for extreme intelligence, magic-resistant feathers, and a tendency to pluck out people’s eyes for no real reason. 

Also, he knew full well her title was Viscountess. 

“I am indeed,” she said stiffly. 

“A pleasure, ma’am.” Harry winced, then bowed low. “Heir Harry of House Potter. I’m sorry, I didn’t grow up around other nobles and I forget sometimes.” 

“…it’s quite all right. The Sugar Supreme, you said?” Her thin lips twisted as she said it like she couldn’t believe the words  _ Sugar Supreme _ actually came out of her mouth. “I’ll take care of it, and request two spoons. One moment, boys.” 

Harry and Longbottom were left staring at each other. 

“Anyway,” Harry said with a smirk, dropping the perfect schoolboy mask for a more mischievous one, “hi. How’s your summer been?” 

“Good,” Longbottom said. He was doing the shoulders-curled-hands-in-pockets thing again. “Nott wrote me about the owl wards. Grandmother almost flipped when she saw I was talking to a Nott, until I convinced her he  _ desperately _ needed my help with Transfiguration.” 

“Heeyy,” Harry said, drawing it out. “Devious of you. I’m impressed.” 

Longbottom blushed. “Yeah, well, now she thinks he must be stupid.” 

“She’s wrong,” Harry said. 

“I know Nott’s smart, he came to potions practice enough for—”

“No, Longbottom, she’s wrong about  _ you _ ,” Harry said, just as Viscountess Longbottom came back carrying a massive and horrifying sugary disaster. Her expression suggested it offended her just by existing. Privately, Harry agreed, but he would do a lot of things for spite, including sit down across from Longbottom and pretend to be a nice normal schoolboy for thirty agonizing minutes, choking down this ice cream mess and talking about summer homework. He only got through it by picturing Viscountess Longbottom pinned to a wall like Marcine’s cat that one time. 

Which probably wasn’t healthy. But neither was this ice cream. Harry blamed her on both counts. 

Viscountess Longbottom sat and stared at both of them the entire time. It was an identical stare to the one her stuffed vulture was giving them. Harry ignored the vulture a little easier than he did the woman. 

Finally, Longbottom put the last scoop of ice cream in his mouth, and Harry could put down his spoon. “So,” Longbottom said, “where did you want to go first? I was thinking Scribblings, I need a new quill.” 

“Let  _ him _ decide, Neville,” Viscountess Longbottom said. 

Harry smiled at her. “No, it’s fine, I don’t know Diagon all that well. I haven’t come here much. Safety reasons, I’m sure you understand, but it’s been so long. I was actually hoping Neville could show me around a little today…” 

“Very well,” Viscountess Longbottom sighed. “Scribblings it is.” 

Harry bit his lip, suddenly nervous. “I mean… I didn’t want… you to have to  _ follow _ us.” 

She peered at him. “Weren’t you worried about safety?” 

Ugh. She was sharp. “It’s  _ Diagon Alley _ ,” Harry said. “And I’m in disguise. No one’s even recognized me. I just… don’t want to inconvenience anyone, ma’am, and my… guardians always complain about how fast young boys can move.” It wasn’t even a lie. The Sisters complained about keeping up with the kids on field trips all the time. “And… I don’t… that is, I’ve never… I got to make my first friends at Hogwarts.” 

He cast his eyes down. Shy. Lonely. The Boy Who Lived reaching out to her grandson. Make her forget the Slytherin crest on his robes, the potential “danger”…

“Hm. I suppose you have a point.” Viscountess Longbottom frowned at them both. “But I expect you to be safe, and responsible, and don’t even  _ look _ down Knockturn Alley!” 

“Yes, Gran,” Longbottom said meekly. 

The terrifying dragon lady cast one last angry look at their empty ice cream bowl and marched away. People instinctively cleared out of her path. 

“She’s something,” one of the other family said. 

Longbottom laughed awkwardly. “Yeah, she… can be.” 

“So.” The mother eyed Harry. “You’re Harry Potter.” 

He winked at her and held a finger to his lips. “Undercover.” 

“Understood, sir,” she said, while her husband shushed their children. “Take care, Heir Longbottom and his friend whose face I definitely didn’t recognize.” 

“Thank you,” Harry said with a seated half-bow. Then, as they began to pack up their things, he glanced at Longbottom. “What’s Knockturn Alley?” 

“Oh. It’s, uh… like the Dark side of Diagon,” Longbottom said. “Apparently that’s where you go for… black market potions, cursed objects, Dark things, all that stuff.” 

Harry snorted. “That’s ridiculous.” 

“It’s—what?” 

“If you were an Auror and had a few days with no case to work, and you wanted to find someone doing something illegal, where would you go?” Harry said. 

“Knockturn.” 

“Exactly. No one doing anything  _ actually _ illegal would go down there. I bet they have… junk shops with questionable items, fine, but no way is it that dark. I’ll bet you Diagon is just the fancy upper-class shopping district and Knockturn’s poorer and has more crime, so they just tell good little boys and girls stories about evil Dark wizards to keep you out of it.” 

Longbottom’s eyes were wide. “…oh.” 

“That said, I also bet you they have non-Ministry-censored books down there. I’ll have to check it out.” 

“What?” Longbottom scrambled after him. “Like,  _ now?” _

“No, not  _ now, _ I’m not a Gryffindor. _ ” _ Harry peered at him. “Eventually. And I wouldn’t drag  _ you _ down there if you didn’t want to go. Let’s go. Scribblings, you said?” 

“Yeah, my quills are all pretty worn out, I need new ones before school starts up again.” 

As they wandered away, Harry caught sight of Theo, lurking in a shop nearby. He held up a hand and mouthed  _ five minutes _ . Theo nodded. 

“Had any fun in your greenhouses this summer?” Harry said. 

Longbottom perked up. The hands came out of his pockets, although his shoulders were still curled in on themselves. “Yeah, actually. Gran doesn’t like plants but Dad insists I keep the greenhouses, so she leaves me alone when I’m out there. I managed to crossbreed a  _ Mimbulus mimbletonia _ with a Muggle cactus, and now I have giant  _ Mimbulus mimbletonias _ . Not really sure what to do with them, but the properties of the sap seem kind of different.” 

“Different how?” 

Harry actually rather enjoyed listening to Longbottom chatter about his plants. It wasn’t Harry’s own area of expertise or even particular interest, but Longbottom was pretty sharp once he got going and Harry appreciated competent, passionate people. There weren’t enough of those in the world. 

They wandered into Scribblings. Harry poked around the color-changing inks while Longbottom searched through quills. He tried not to be jealous that Longbottom went straight to the luxury shelf. 

“Potter, which do you think?” Longbottom said, holding out two quills. One was from an eagle and one was from a snowy owl. 

“They’re both pretty,” he said. 

“Yeah…” Longbottom frowned. “The snowy owl one’s a little showy for me, though. Wait… d-don’t you have a snowy owl?” 

“Yeah, Aoife,” Harry said. 

Longbottom held out the white quill. “You should get this, then, it matches!” 

“No, thanks,” Harry said. 

“No, really, you should,” Longbottom said. “I don’t have an owl or I’d be getting one to match. Loads of people do it.” 

Harry looked at the soft white quill. Four galleons. “I can’t afford it,” he said evenly. “Four galleons is a lot to spend on a quill when I have to count sickles for my textbooks.” 

Longbottom’s eyes got really wide. “Oh. Right. I’m—s-sorry, I forgot…” 

“You’re fine.” Harry half-smiled. “I have some cheap ones already, I’ve been in the Alley for a few hours. Go on, get the eagle one. It suits you.” 

Two minutes later—

“Here.” 

Harry looked up. “What?” 

“Here.” Longbottom held out the box. It was shaking very slightly. “I… here.” 

Slowly, Harry took the box and opened it. Inside was the white snowy owl quill. 

“It’s a birthday—birthday g-gift,” Longbottom said. His shoulders started to bend again. “A little late, but—and also to thank you for the p-potions tutoring last year. I’d never have passed and…” 

“I like it,” Harry said, carefully boxing up the quill again. “Thank you.” 

The shoulders straightened out and Longbottom smiled. 

“Harry! Hi, Longbottom.” 

They both looked up as they left the store, Harry with a quickly hidden smirk and Longbottom with surprise. 

“Nott,” he said. “Er, hi. Good summer?” 

“So far, yeah.” Theo loped up and shook Longbottom’s hand, then grinned at Harry. “Good to see you, mate. Muggles not being too awful?” 

“Tolerable,” Harry said. “They leave me alone and I return the favor.” 

“Makes no sense,” Longbottom mumbled. 

Harry had his theories. “Well, I have to live with it,” he sighed. 

“Want to have lunch?” Theo suggested. “Or a late lunch, anyway. Longbottom, you kicked everyone’s arses in Herbology, d’you think you could explain why farthing flowers are so touchy?” 

Longbottom blinked. “I… sure. We just ate ice cream, I dunno how hungry I am…” 

“Something light, then,” Harry suggested. He really needed to thank Theo for the initiative later. “I saw a café over by Madam Malkin’s.” 

“No, Gran goes there.” Longbottom looked at Theo. 

“And you can’t be seen with a Nott.” 

Longbottom blushed. “I…  _ I _ don’t mind. You’ve been decent to me and that’s enough for me. But she’d flip.” 

“I know one closer to Gringotts,” Theo said. “The goblins use it so loads of people avoid it.” 

Harry laughed. “Lead on, then.” 

A few goblins did give them weird looks when they sat in, but Harry offered a polite nod to the goblin cashier and acted like everything was totally normal as he ordered three teas and scones. Theo insisted on paying since it had been his idea. Harry accepted the small gift and sipped his tea while they talked plants. He’d done all his summer homework within two weeks, of course, but the conversation was still interesting. 

“How about Transfiguration?” Theo said. “Harry, I know you probably finished that ages ago.” 

“A few weeks, yeah.” 

Longbottom made a face. “I did the theory bit, but…” He lowered his voice. “Our wards cancel out the Trace. I’ve been trying to do some of the second-year work but it’s not working too well…”

“Ooooh, so secretive,” Theo teased. “Most kids still living in their family seats do that, Longbottom, it’s not weird.” 

“It’s not? But it’s illegal.” 

Harry snorted. “Believe it or not, most people are actually happy to break the law if they think they can get away with it and they don’t have a moral issue with the action. I mean, the Trace doesn’t work in Diagon, either, because it picks up…” He looked around. “Well, right now, ours are all probably going haywire with that guy stirring his soup magically, those two wizards charming their plates… I dunno if it picks up goblin magic but if it does then that, too.” 

“It doesn’t,” Theo said. “I asked Father once.” 

“Lucky goblins,” Harry said. “Here, Longbottom, I can try and help you with some of the practical.” 

Longbottom looked around. “Here? But… wouldn’t someone tell?” 

Theo mimed pinching Floo powder. “Yes, hello, is this the Ministry? I’d like to report three boys in a café in Diagon turning their spoons into knitting needles.” 

“…okay,” Longbottom said. 

_ “Inanimatus mutabilis,” _ Theo said, tapping one of the spoons with his wand. It ended up like a lumpy knitting needle made of silver. He frowned. 

Harry gave it a shot and got a knitting needle that looked brown but still felt like metal when he held it. 

Longbottom blushed when they both looked at him. “I haven’t been able to get that one yet.” 

“Give it a shot,” Harry said. “I told you I’d help, c’mon.” 

“Okay…  _ inanimatus mutabilis.” _

The spoon shuddered but otherwise didn’t change. He blushed harder. Shoulders curling. 

“Hey,” Harry said. “Transfiguration is a mental game. We use the same incantation for all inanimate-to-inanimate transfigurations, and we study the theory so we have a sense, here, of what steps the matter of the spoon has to go through to become the matter of a knitting needle, temporarily. You have to focus on the starting state, the changes, and the end goal all at once.” 

“Easy,” Theo supplied. 

Longbottom tried again. After four or five attempts, he could usually get a spoon made of wood, but that was it. 

Harry steeled himself, reached across the table, and put a hand on Longbottom’s shoulder, ignoring Theo’s quickly hidden surprise. Last year, when Theo had grabbed his arm from behind, Harry had almost given him a dislocated shoulder. “Longbottom,” he said quietly. “Remember last year, when we first found that classroom for potions practice and you couldn’t cast the cleaning charm at first?” 

“…yeah,” Longbottom said. 

“You have to want it,” Harry said, tapping the half-transfigured spoon with his finger. “You have to  _ mean  _ it. And you have to believe it’ll work. You’re a wizard, you have magic, and it’s not going to abandon you at random.” 

He took a deep breath.  _ “Inanimatus mutabilis.”  _

With a twitch, the spoon turned into an almost-perfect wooden knitting needle. 

Theo grinned. It was predatory for half a second before he got himself under control. “Hey, great job.” 

“Thanks,” Longbottom said, still staring at the needle. 

Harry went again.  _ “Inanimatus mutabilis,”  _ he said, and picked up a perfect needle. “Maybe I’ll buy yarn and take up knitting.” 

“We should leave the cutlery here,” Longbottom said. 

“Joking,” Harry said, canceling the transfiguration with a tap of his wand and a muttered  _ “finite.” _

They left the café half an hour later, when Longbottom admitted that he needed to meet his gran. Theo said goodbye and went to Flourish & Blotts for his books; Harry would meet him there. 

“I wasn’t expecting to like him,” Longbottom said. 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you would, either, to be honest.” 

Longbottom shrugged. “He’s not very  _ nice _ , but he’s fun. I get enough nice in Hufflepuff.” 

Surprising even himself, Harry laughed. “Good point. Oh, hey, when you get your Potions stuff, ask for the extended level four kit. You’ll get a wider range of ingredients and better quality, too. Since it shows you know what you’re talking about.” 

“Okay, I’ll do that,” Longbottom said. “And… I was thinking… I might… start using my own plants. This year.” Pause while he pretended not to be watching Harry. “What d’you think?” 

“I think it’s a clever idea,” Harry said, honestly. “Fresher is always better and… I think, technically, potions is ritual magic, so it’ll probably go better with things you grew.” 

“Wait,” Longbottom said. “Ritual magic is illegal.” 

Harry frowned. “I don’t think it’s  _ all _ illegal. It can’t be. It’s defined as using foci with magical properties, and optionally runes and incantations, to shape and channel latent magic along with your own. The only magic a caster puts into a ritual is the bit to keep it active and connect them to the world’s magic. That’s potions, right there. The foci are the magical plants. And it’s like in rituals, you can’t do magic in the Potions classroom without potentially messing up someone’s potion with magical contamination.” 

“That’s so weird,” Longbottom said. “I thought all rituals were illegal. And, you know, Dark.” 

Harry barely stopped himself from snorting. He hadn’t found any actual Dark Arts books yet so he couldn’t say for sure, but what he’d learned about the “Dark Arts” indirectly told him there wasn’t really much of a difference between a Dark spell and other magic except its effect. But it was a little early to start sharing those opinions with Neville Longbottom of all people. “Not all of it, I guess. There’s your gran.” 

“Mr. Potter,” she said imperiously, stopping them in front of Flourish & Blotts. “Neville. I do hope you enjoyed yourselves.” 

“Yes, thank you, ma’am,” Harry said, bowing. 

“It’s a pleasure to see Neville making friends, you know. He never had many, was always too quiet.” 

Harry’s smile started to hurt. “Being quiet’s not a bad thing.” 

“No,” she agreed, “but children don’t like it. Neville, come along, we’ve got to go to the apothecary. Mr. Potter, good day.” 

“Good day, Viscountess,” he said. 

_ Bye _ , Longbottom mouthed, and Harry waved behind his gran’s back as they walked away. 

Irritating overbearing old bat. 

Theo, predictably, was in the bookstore’s dueling section. “Look at this,” he said in place of a greeting, showing Harry a book. “Dueling champion Tatiana Van Astor wrote a book on her techniques and career!”

“Fascinating.” 

“Mudblood,” Theo muttered. “She’s the best duelist in the  _ world _ . She beat  _ Albus Dumbledore _ when they were twenty-six and twenty-nine in the European circuit. And her whole life she’s been notoriously secretive. This is  _ huge. _ ” 

Harry raised his eyebrows. “All right, without sarcasm this time: Fascinating. Are you going to get it?” 

“Absolutely,” Theo said. “She was my childhood hero.” 

“Because she beat Dumbledore?” Harry suggested, smirking. 

Theo laughed. “That was part of it. She’s also just badass.” 

Harry left him to browse and find schoolbooks. Not being able to buy anything at Flourish & Blotts’ prices—usually between one and one and a half galleons per book—made it hard to enjoy being in here. He wandered around, poking through shelves of luxury folios that he didn’t need and so didn’t feel annoyed he couldn’t buy. 

The doorbell chimed, and a large, loud group of people came into the store. Harry rolled his eyes and set down a leather folio. For Merlin’s sake, this wasn’t a library, but it  _ also _ wasn’t a diner. People could at least  _ try _ to be courteous. 

“… _ still _ disappointed you two aren’t prefects this year…” 

“Mum, we couldn’t be—”

“There’s two of us!” 

A new voice, and a horribly familiar one. “Well, no one can tell you two apart, so maybe they’d just give you one badge and have you take turns.” 

Weasleys. Of course. 

“Mum, do we  _ have _ to meet up with the Longbottoms later? Neville’s annoying.” 

“Now, Ginny, dear, his parents are good friends of ours. Neville’s a nice boy, if a little quiet. No, Fred, you are  _ not _ buying that—women shouldn’t  _ duel _ —”

Harry turned around and spotted one of the Weasley Demons holding the same book Theo had picked up. “But Mum—”

“I said  _ no,  _ Fred.” 

“I’m George.” 

“Oh, sorry, George dear—”

“Only kidding, I am Fred,” the twin said. 

The Weasley matriarch—Harry wasn’t totally sure of their rank—swatted her son on the shoulder and took off to shepherd the youngest two, Ronald from Harry’s year and the ginger-haired girl who’d whined about the Longbottoms. He looked back in time to see the twin slip the book behind his back to the other twin, who wandered off in the direction of the checkout counter with a perfectly innocent expression. 

The first twin straightened and caught Harry looking. Harry winked and deliberately turned his attention to the nearest bookshelf. 

There was a sudden shriek and a thump from the dueling section. Where he’d last seen Theo. 

Dammit. 

For a second Harry wanted to just leave and let Theo handle his own mess, but—loyalty went both ways. Anger at the world in general and Weasleys in particular made him almost stomp over. 

“—gize to my daughter, young man!” 

“I’m sorry, Viscountess Weasley, Miss Weasley,” Theo murmured. He had his back to a bookshelf and whether Viscountess Weasley knew it or not she had him totally cornered. The ginger girl clung to her mother’s robes. “I didn’t look where I was going. I didn’t mean to run into you, Miss Weasley.” 

Viscountess Weasley huffed. “Youth these days, no respect. And we don’t hold with the noble titles anymore, young man. Trappings of a bygone age. What’s your name?” 

“Viscountess Weasley?” 

All three of their heads snapped up. The two Weasleys spun around. Past them, Harry briefly met Theo’s eyes. The relief there made him sure coming back here had been the right decision. Gratitude was such a powerful tool. 

“Dear boy, are you noble as well?” Viscountess Weasley said. “We don’t hold with the old titles, there’s no need for all that formality.” 

It was her  _ pity _ that made Harry’s teeth ache. She seemed to think someone had come along and  _ forced _ these manners on him, that it was some kind of  _ hardship _ to honor the culture and traditions of  _ his _ world. “My family does,” he said. It was even true, since he was the only Potter left. “I, ah… recognized you and—someone mentioned you were great friends of my parents.” Behind them, Theo started to edge towards a gap in the shelves. “Heir Harry of House Potter.” He bowed. 

The girl’s eyes promptly grew to the size of saucers. She squeaked and dove behind her mother. 

“Oh! Harry!” Viscountess Weasley fluttered her hands. “Dear boy, if I’d known—! You really must cast off those silly manners now, I insist. Family friends and all.” 

Family friends his arse. She was old enough to be twice his mother’s age. Harry didn’t know if that was normal and magicals had kids later than Muggles—entirely possible since they lived longer—or if the Weasleys were the anomaly. Either way, he doubted they’d been more than friendly as new mothers involved in the same vigilante war. 

“Okay, Mrs. Weasley,” he said with a shy smile. 

Theo disappeared. 

“It’s so lovely to meet you, Harry dear!” She bustled forward, arms outstretched. 

Oh no. Oh crap. 

Harry had a half a second after realizing what was about to happen to brace himself. Then Mrs. Weasley was pulling him forward into a hug and it took all his self-control to not blast her into a wall. 

Somehow he didn’t think that would go over well. 

“Mum?” 

He never thought he’d be grateful to hear Ronald Weasley’s voice. Mrs. Weasley broke away. “Yes, dear?” 

“Who’s—oh. Potter.” 

“Weasley,” Harry said pleasantly. He almost slipped up and said  _ Weasel _ , but the mother was right there and anyway that was Malfoy’s joke. 

Mrs. Weasley looked between them. “Ron, be polite!” 

Weasley turned red. 

“Harry, would you like to come finish your shopping with us?” Mrs. Weasley said. “Ron and Ginny still need new robes, Ron probably needs a whole new wardrobe with how much he’s growing, and then it’s our family tradition to let children pick out a pet before their first year…” 

Harry imagined walking into the pet store and talking to the snakes. If he picked a big scary one he might get lucky and give Mrs. Weasley a stroke. “No, thank you, I just wanted to say hello. My guardians are expecting me back home soon,” he said. 

“Another time, then, I insist.” She beamed at him. “Have a lovely day, dear.”

“Thanks, you too.” 

He turned a corner and his eyes landed on a book of prank spells. Harry stopped dead. 

_ I shouldn’t… _ But he was already picking up the book and looking for a decent spell. He slowly started to smile when he found one. 

Carefully, Harry took aim at Weasley from between two bookshelves and whispered a quick incantation. 

For a few seconds he thought it hadn’t worked. Then Weasley suddenly twitched. Rubbed at his hip. 

Mrs. Weasley broke off her stream of chatter to the girl. “Ron, what  _ is _ it? Stop fidgeting!” 

“It’s—um—my…” Weasley’s face went white and his legs clamped together. “Is there a—bathroom?” 

“Oh, yes, right back there around the corner,” Mrs. Weasley said, pointing the direction Theo had gone. Weasley booked it. 

Harry snickered. 

“Mum, was that really Harry Potter?” the girl said. 

“Yes, Ginny. The poor dear, he’s never seen out in public, I do wonder where he’s lived all this time…” 

“But his hair wasn’t black! And he didn’t have the eyes!” 

“I imagine he’s in disguise.” 

The Weaslette frowned. “But I wanted to see his eyes.” 

“You’ll see them in school this year, I’m sure,” Mrs. Weasley said briskly. 

“Not unless I’m in Slytherin,” little Weasley said petulantly. 

Mrs. Weasley’s lips thinned. “You most certainly will  _ not _ be in Slytherin, not if I know you at all. And why would that help you see him  _ more?” _

“Didn’t you read Ron’s letters last fall?” 

“I was busy with the charity auction, I didn’t close read them.” 

“Oh.” Ginny sighed. “Harry’s in Slytherin.” 

“He  _ is?” _ Mrs. Weasley stopped dead halfway down the aisle and stared at her daughter. Neither of them noticed Harry spying from the next one over. “He… but… the Potters… and the Boy Who Lived… I…” 

“Yeah, Ron said everyone was pretty shocked. You should ask him about it.” Weaslette sighed again. 

Harry stifled a laugh. The little redhead had a  _ crush _ on him. Hilarious. 

Mrs. Weasley shook off her shock. “ _ Well. _ I wonder what Albus thinks… and how the boy’s doing, I imagine those snakes are making his life miserable… I’m surprised the poor dear survived his first year, frankly. Let’s go find Percy and your father and buy your books.” 

Harry rolled his eyes, turned around, and walked right into someone. 

“Well, hello there, ickle snake,” said one of the Weasley Demons. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” said the other one. 

“It’s not  _ that _ odd,” Harry drawled. “We  _ do _ all need to collect our school supplies.” 

“This counts as—”

“School supplies?” the second twin finished, holding up the prank book Harry had just referenced. 

He pasted on an exaggerated innocent face. “To you two, I’m sure it does.” 

They laughed in unison. It was creepy. “See you at school—”

“—ickle snake.” 

Harry was still standing there, alone, when Theo found him five minutes later. “Appreciate the rescue,” he said. “You okay?” 

“…I think the Weasley Demons just decided to be interested in me,” Harry said. 

Theo paled. “Only you.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Harry spent almost his entire visit to the Notts’ either flying or reading. He left his new books in his trunk and focused on what he could find in the Nott library while he was here, collecting a big stack. Viscount Nott had Larkin, as Ms. Haigh insisted he call her, approve all his selections, which she did. She only gave Harry a funny look after one of them. “Is it allowed at school?” he said. 

“It’s not  _ forbidden _ ,” she said, drawing out the word. “Just don’t get caught with it.” 

“Wasn’t planning to.” 

Only on the morning he was supposed to leave did Harry remember to ask Theo about something Larkin said the first day. “Theo… Larkin mentioned the magical orphanage. Someone brought it up last year, too, but I can’t find more than brief references to it in the Prophet.” 

“Oh.” Theo grimaced. “That.” 

“That?” Harry prompted. 

“It’s… a… sore point for some of us. Um. After the war ended…” Theo paused and ran a hand through his hair. “There were over two hundred Death Eaters. Only about fifty of those had the Dark Mark, the more elite circles. They had bolt holes all over the country. When the Order and the Aurors cleaned them out a lot of their kids got caught in the crossfire.” 

“Lots of people acted like it was some big shock to find Death Eaters’ kids.” Both boys jumped. Apparently Theo hadn’t noticed Larkin come into the library either. “Like it was a surprise they were human, with families and friends and everything.” She folded her arms. “My cousins are in that orphanage. Meldrin and Reya Travers. Twins. I’m not even allowed to see them, because of my, and I quote, questionable influences.” 

“That’d be us,” Theo drawled. 

Larkin nodded. “At last count there were almost fifty kids in there between… I think the youngest are about five or six now, and the oldest are starting Hogwarts this year.” 

“Your cousins?” Harry said quietly. 

“No. Not for another year.” She was quiet. “We write. I’ll be running into them in Diagon Alley in disguise when they go to buy their supplies.” 

An _ orphanage _ . Harry turned a page of his book with more force than absolutely necessary. 

“How is it there?” he said finally. 

Larkin took her time answering. “It’s… not… the children banded together out of necessity. Different groups of them. Usually by age. Reya hates letters so most of mine are from Meldrin. He’s told me they have a common enemy—the people in charge—so even though it’s understaffed the kids don’t get too vicious with each other. It doesn’t help that the older set remembered the war, and apparently they tell the younger kids… unflattering stories about the Order.” 

“Who is in charge.” 

“There’s an executive board,” Larkin said. “Current chairwizard is… Elphias Doge. Vice chairwitch, Viscountess Molly Weasley.” 

A vase on a table near Harry shattered. 

“Merlin’s balls,” he muttered.  _ “Reparo.” _

The pieces of the vase flew back together, and he levitated it to the same spot it had been in. 

“What about adoption?” he said to break the silence. 

“Who wants Death Eaters’ kids?” Theo said. 

Larkin sighed. “That’s not the only problem, Theodore, and you know it. Most people aren’t  _ that _ shallow, or at least they would be fine with one of the younger kids who doesn’t really remember anything… before. A big part of it is the bureaucratic hoop-jumping and fine-paying and palm-greasing you have to do to get anywhere. The few families that can afford it mostly have their own kids, don’t want someone they can’t legally blood adopt, or aren’t legally allowed to foster anyone because of sanctions after the war.” 

Harry needed a list of noble families. Soon. And their political declarations in the Wizengamot. Possibly he could call in a favor for that. Bole could work, or Higgs… Higgs made even more sense, actually. He was graduated and he’d never had many friends in the school. He’d announced his contract with the Murkwood Magpies at the end of last year and he was probably just playing Quidditch and secretly dating his Hufflepuff girlfriend. It was as good a reason to call in the favor as any. 

Aoife could take the letter tonight. 

Once Larkin left, Theo spoke up again. “You… have plans.” 

“I do.” No sense denying it. 

“Can I ask what they are?” Theo said cautiously. 

Harry looked at him for a few seconds. 

“I can be more effective if I have a better idea of our goals,” Theo said. 

“You’ve been doing just fine so far,” Harry pointed out. 

Theo shrugged.  _ “More _ effective.” 

Slowly, Harry nodded. “In a nu—a Snitch, never be powerless again. More complicated…” He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “The orphanage needs to go. The we-love-Muggles-let’s-all-just-hold-hands-and-sing-kumbayah thing is so stupid I can’t even say it.” 

“You realize who you sound like,” Theo said. 

“I’m not a violent genocidal psychopath,” Harry said dismissively.  _ Well, violent maybe, but only when given a reason.  _ “Riddle was a toddler smashing sand castles on the beach. Even if he’d ended up in power, no way would he have hung onto it. I’m not interested in mass murder. Just, you know, never have to go near a Muggle ever again.” 

Theo snorted. “And the game plan for this year? It’s not that intense, but we should be preparing. You’ve probably noticed House politics kick into high gear once we hit year three.” 

“Let them think I’m apolitical until then,” Harry said. “Push back only when they push first. Rookwood probably knows better and Avery definitely does.”

“They’re too old for you to be a threat to either of them,” Theo said. “Our year it’ll be Malfoy.” 

_ Now that Bulstrode has been temporarily handled _ , Harry supplied. “It would be boring if there were  _ no _ challenges,” he said instead. 

Theo smirked. “True.” 

The last three weeks of August were painful. 

Not physically. Harry had firmly gotten the point across about attacking him physically and the Muggle children, even the worst bullies, didn’t touch him. There were still a thousand little snubs and insults and snide glances and shifts of body language to endure but he could, and did, distract himself with books. Raza’s commentary, as usual, helped. 

When he wasn’t reading his books, he was thinking about Higgs’ letter, now memorized. 

_ Potter, _

_ I was wondering when you’d get around to this. I don’t even want to know why a noble needs this list, but I can guess it has something to do with the fact that you never talk about your mysterious guardians. Best of luck this year.  _

_ The Wizengamot has three parties—the Progressive Integration Party, usually shortened to PIP or just Integrates, the Neutrals, and the Traditionalists. Each family on the Wizengamot declares which way they orient. They don’t have to vote that way; it just helps keep things organized. Parties tend to change over time but we’ve had more or less these three since the 1960s. Title doesn’t change how much power you have or how many votes, it’s just a mark of prestige at this point. In order to be on the Wizengamot, you need at least a Knighthood. King Arthur named magical nobles to the Wizengamot and established it to rule after his death. There are nobles who aren’t in the Wizengamot, but a family being raised to the Wizengamot automatically makes them Knights. That’s only happened twice since Arthur’s time since it needs a unanimous vote, which pretty much never happens. Breakdown looks like this: _

  
  
_   
_

_ Integrates:  _

_ Dumbledores, Knight  _

_ Longbottoms, Viscountess _

_ Moody, Lord _

_ Pritchard, Lady _

_ Doge, Knight _

_ Abbott, Viscount _

_ Edgecombe, Lord _

_ Vance, Lady (our dear instructor’s older sister)  _

_ McKinnon, Baroness _

_ Shacklebolt, Viscount _

_ Meadowes, Lord _

_ Crouch, Knight _

_ Macmillan, Viscount _

_ Bell, Knight _

_ Podmore, Knight _

_ Total votes: 15 _

_ Neutrals:  _

_ Jones, Lady _

_ Smith, Earl _

_ Towler, Knight _

_ Slughorn, Viscount. Votes by proxy.  _

_ Haughsmoore, Marquess. Current Head of House is apolitical and hasn’t claimed the seat.  _

_ Bones, Knight _

_ Wood, Knight _

_ Davies, Lord _

_ Greengrass, Viscount _

_ Rosier, Viscount. Defunct—only one left is too young.  _

_ Moon, Lady _

_ Prewett, Viscount. Defunct until someone proves a claim.  _

_ Total votes: 9 _

_ Traditionalists:  _

_ Selwyns, Marquess _

_ Nott, Viscount. Defunct until the current Head dies.  _

_ Malfoy, Earl _

_ Parkinson, Viscount _

_ Burke, Viscount. Defunct until current Head dies.  _

_ Bulstrode, Viscount. Defunct until Perseus comes of age.  _

_ Black, Duke. Defunct until the current Head dies.  _

_ Lestrange, Viscount. Defunct until someone proves a claim.  _

_ Carrow, Viscount. Defunct until current Head dies.  _

_ Gaunt, Earl. Defunct until someone can prove a claim, at which point the Wizengamot votes to reinstate them or not. Whole family was sanctioned indefinitely in the eighteen hundreds.  _

_ Travers, Viscount. Defunct until current Heir comes of age.  _

_ Fawley, Viscount. Defunct until current Heir comes of age.  _

_ Yaxley, Viscount _

_ Avery, Viscount. Defunct until Carter comes of age.  _

_ Rowle,Viscount. Defunct until current Heir comes of age.  _

_ Rookwood, Lord. Defunct until current Heir comes of age.  _

_ Flint, Viscount _

_ Total votes: 5 _ _   
_

_ My debt is paid.  _

_ -Higgs _

It was a fascinating look into an archaic but somehow still functional system. Harry knew from his reading that the Minister was the only elected official in England, but that nobles on the Wizengamot represented families living in designated areas of the country. Complicated, ancient magics tied the nobles to their land and the people they stood for, so if a family went off the rails and started doing things that negatively affected their region, or went against what their people wanted, their magic would suffer. Go too far, and the current seat-holder would automatically lose their rights to do so, as determined by the Pendragon family magics that still held the whole mess together. He didn’t understand the details and barely understood the outline but at least now the power plays in Slytherin started to make a little more sense. 

Then he turned his attention to the Ministry for a week and realized he’d spoken too soon. The Wizengamot was complicated but the  _ Ministry _ was the real mess. At least Wizengamot nobles had some kind of weird magical oath thing keeping them accountable, even if exactly who they were accountable to was completely undefined given the end of formal oaths of fealty between a Lord or Lady and people under their care. In the Ministry, only the Minister was elected, all other appointments were to death or retirement unless the Wizengamot stripped Ministry posts as punishment for a crime, and the Minister chose all his or her people. Most just left the same people in place as their predecessors had but they usually replaced the Heads of the Department of International Relations and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at least. 

Harry knew a decent amount about the Muggle government, since he’d realized young that at least being able to understand the political game was a requirement for having power. Even at twelve he could suggest at least three ways to make the Ministry work better. No wonder people like Malinra complained. 

_ “Even the Muggles do better than we do at freedom of speech and accountable government,”  _ he complained to Raza.  _ “We have centuries more history and culture than they do and they’re still kicking our arses.”  _

_ “So change it,” _ Raza said, unsympathetic as usual. 

_ “Oh, I’m going go,” _ Harry muttered. This world— _ his  _ world—was his birthright and his place and it was beautiful and ancient and incredible. It was where he  _ belonged _ , where he had always belonged even when he thought himself a freak, that he alone could do the impossible. 

When he read that the Ministry of Magic and Wizengamot together employed sixty-three percent of wizarding Britain’s forty-three thousand people, he chucked his book across the room, because an  _ idiot _ could tell that would eventually fall apart. 

He was up at the crack of dawn on September first, just like the year before. Harry thought he could see a pattern forming. 

Aoife bit his ear one more time before she took off for Hogwarts. Raza, now just over a meter long, jammed himself into Harry’s messenger bag, complaining the entire time. No one bothered them as Harry dragged his trunk downstairs, checked out with Sister Rachel, and left Saint Hedwig’s for another year. 

_ “I swear I’m going to set that place on fire someday,”  _ he said as they crossed the road. 

_ “I want to watch.”  _

_ “You will.” _ Raza was the only one who could possibly hate Saint Hedwig’s as much as Harry did. 

He suffered through one last tea with Mrs. Figg, and then he was stepping into her Floo and heading off to school again. He even managed to keep his feet when he stepped out onto the platform. Not that anyone noticed, because as usual, he was so early there was no one else there yet. 

Longbottom was the first to find him, hours later. “Is that your  _ Mimbulus mimbletonia _ crossbreed?” Harry said, pointing to the two-foot-tall cactus Longbottom was barely holding in his left arm. 

“Yeah—hang on—oh crap—”

Harry flicked his fingers and caught the cactus as it toppled. Magic held it frozen in midair. 

Longbottom stared at it for a few seconds, looked at Harry, looked back at the cactus, and then grabbed it by the pot. “Thanks.” 

“No problem,” Harry said.

Longbottom heaved his trunk up into the overhead rack and nestled the cactus in the corner of the bench. “How was the rest of your summer?” 

“Boring,” Harry said. “But the Muggles left me alone, which is about as much as I hope for at this point, and I got a lot of good reading done. How’d your magic practice go?” 

“I’ve done the first two weeks of transfiguration practical,” Longbottom said excitedly. “Gran and Mum and Dad and Uncle Algie couldn’t believe it. Once Mum got done scolding me for ignoring the Trace she couldn’t stop talking about how she didn’t know where I got it from. I just said a friend helped me out.” 

Harry shook his head. “No, that was you, Longbottom. I just helped you get in the right place mentally. You’ve got plenty of power and intelligence yourself, you just need confidence.” 

“You’re the one that said transfiguration is mostly a mental game,” Longbottom pointed out. “So helping me with the mental part  _ was _ really important.” 

Harry laughed and dropped the argument. Longbottom  _ did _ owe Harry for that but it’d be crude to admit it. Humility was better with him. Official favors were for Slytherins. 

Theo and Davis arrived next, already bickering about something. Bole was right behind them, sitting down next to Longbottom with a book already open and not a word of hello. 

Longbottom fussed over his crossbred cactus, Davis and Theo argued, Bole and Harry read quietly, and he didn’t exactly  _ relax _ as the train pulled away from the station but something in him stilled. Home. He was on his way home. He was surrounded by children but they were children like him, and that made all the difference. 

Someone knocked on the door about half an hour in. Bole, sitting closest to it, kicked it open with a sigh. “Hey, big brother,” she said, not even looking up. 

“Porsh,” he greeted. “Potter. Mind if I…” 

“Not at all,” Harry said. He let an edge creep into his smile for half a second, but it was gone by the time Longbottom looked up. 

“Heir Asten of Bole,” he said, tilting his head to the compartment at large. 

“Heir Neville of House Longbottom,” Longbottom said, a little nervously. 

Harry glanced around as Bole sat down.  _ I’m just missing a Gryffindor at this point… _

“How’s your summer been, Bole?” he said. 

“Eh, bit of this, bit of that.” Bole shrugged. His sister still had her nose in her book but her eyes weren’t tracking. “Not too awful, but nothing exciting. We spent a couple weeks in Romania with our grandparents.” 

“What’s in Romania?” Davis said. 

“Ghosts,” he said gloomily. “Lots and lots of ghosts.” 

Harry would have to go to Romania someday, then. All that time with history books had taught him one thing—the past was important. There were secrets in the past, of magic and history and politics, secrets still useful today. One of his plans for this year was to befriend the castle ghosts. 

“One tried to trick me into jumping down her well,” Portia said, turning a page of her book. “I found runes carved inside the edge. My death would’ve allowed her to possess my body permanently and leave  _ me _ stuck down there as a ghost. Apparently it’s happened about eight times in the last two hundred years.” 

“Good job not falling for it,” Theo said. 

Asten snorted. “Ghost regretted it, too. I spent two hours sitting on the edge of the well dropping rocks on her.” 

“Fruit might’ve been better,” Harry mused. “Let it rot down there with her.” 

“Yeah, this is why you’re Slytherin,” Longbottom said, laughing a little. 

Bole hung around a few more minutes before he excused himself and left. Harry hid his smirk behind a book, saw Theo do the same inside a travel mug charmed to keep his tea ever-hot. 

Harry had been expecting that. He’d even, sort of, been expecting Rookwood to pause and poke her head in to say hello. It came as more of a surprise when Merula Snyde knocked, slid the door open, and leaned on the frame with a grin. 

She wasn’t particularly pretty. In fact, she was aggressively forgettable at first glance in the same way as Avery. Until you looked a bit closer and saw the ice underneath. 

“Potter,” she said, nodding around the rest of the compartment. 

“Snyde.”

“Welcome back.” She eyed his glasses. “You look a proper noble now.” 

“I didn’t know you cared,” Harry said with a smirk. 

Snyde half-smiled.  _ “I _ don’t. See you at school.” 

“What was that?” Longbottom said, after she left. 

“Slytherin politics,” Theo said. Davis’ eyes were flicking from Harry to Theo. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“I am so glad I’m in Hufflepuff,” Longbottom said. 

Pascal Haigh, Larkin’s younger brother, stopped in for a few minutes to say hello to Theo. He side-eyed Harry the entire time. Marcus Flint paused long enough to gruffly ask if Harry was trying out for Quidditch this year, and if so, what position, while Cassius Warrington and Adrian Pucey lurked in the corridor. Kinsley Mirren and Alen Weise tumbled in with a pack of Exploding Snap cards and drew the second-years into a game while they supposedly hid from a furious Gianna Rossi. 

Longbottom mostly looked bemused by all of it. 

Harry didn’t let his guard down once. None of them pressed him; no one after Snyde made any kind of prodding comments. They weren’t testing him politically, not now; they were after his attitudes toward Slytherin. He’d been overlooked as a threat until the end of last year. Dismissed, a stray Potter in Slytherin, someone who  _ didn’t belong _ . Apparently, some of his House mates had seen the error of their ways. 

“Mind if I join you?” 

“Yes,” Theo sneered instantly. 

Harry glanced up at Parkinson in the half-open doorway. “No.” 

Theo laughed. 

“Heir Neville of House Longbottom,” Longbottom said. He wasn’t even bothering to look up from his and Bole’s chess game at this point. 

“Heir Pansy of House Parkinson.” She really took up a lot of the compartment for a girl her size. Parkinson took the empty seat between Davis and the inside wall, on the bench opposite Harry, flicked out a fashion magazine, and started reading. 

“Good move,” Bole murmured. 

Longbottom grinned. “Thanks.” 

“Do anything fun this summer, Potter?” Parkinson said idly. 

“Bit of this, bit of that,” Harry said, watching her closely. “Studying, reading, that sort of thing.” 

“Maybe you should’ve been in Ravenclaw,” she said with a hint of a smile curling her lips. It was in no way a nice or teasing smile. 

Theo snorted. 

“Maybe,” Harry said, letting his absolute disbelief color his tone. Sure, he liked knowing things, but only things that were useful.

“Your guardians must have quite a library, then,” she said, turning a page in her magazine. “To keep you occupied.” 

Well, there was an exception to every rule. Parkinson was the test du jour, apparently. “I’m kept occupied,” he agreed. 

“So kind of you to care,” Davis muttered. 

Harry laughed. “Mhm. She’s kind and I’m a Ravenclaw.” 

Davis and Theo were tense as live wires and pretending not to be. Badly, in Davis’ case. 

“Not good enough,” Bole murmured, barely audible. “Check.” 

Longbottom frowned. 

“You finally look like someone worth associating with,” Parkinson said, tossing her magazine lazily aside and eyeing Harry’s robes. “Hair’s tamed, and you got new glasses. The Potter heir instead of some mudblood.” 

Longbottom stiffened. 

Harry let his own eyes sweep dismissively over Parkinson. “And you look exactly like you always have, Parkinson.” 

“Which is?” 

“Someone who thinks she’s above little old halfblood me.” He leaned back in his seat, cocked his chin up a half inch, let his shoulders spread. A thousand tiny things that turned his body from that of a twelve-year-old boy into someone completely in control.

“She’d be an idiot to think you weak for your blood,” Theo said. The words were aimed at Harry but his eyes were on Parkinson. Davis was busy trying to dissolve into the seat so she didn’t get stuck between them. 

Parkinson’s slanted eyes gleamed. “Agreed. After all, Riddle was a halfblood.” 

The air in the compartment was sucked out. 

“Check,” Longbottom murmured, moving a bishop. 

“He also wanted genocide, and acted like a toddler hitting people for fun,” Harry said. “No strategy. Not to mention he tried to kill me. Magical power isn’t everything, but even if it was, we both know I wouldn’t lose.” 

Parkinson was the first to look away. “My mistake.” She picked up the magazine again. 

“Checkmate,” Bole said. 

“Dammit,” Longbottom said with a grin, and the tension snapped. “Why do I always lose?” 

“Because you think two steps ahead, at best,” Bole said, sweeping her pieces into a bag. “Three’s better, or four. The real grandmasters see seven or eight.” 

Longbottom sighed theatrically. “I’ll let you stick to chess, then.” 

“Is that the latest from Chandelin Verskov?” Davis said suddenly, pointing to a bent-back page of Parkinson’s magazine. 

“It is. See the cut on the robe sleeves?” Parkinson said, and that was all it took to suck Davis into a happy debate about fashion. 

“—better to have the double seams in a different color,” Davis said. “For the accent.” 

Parkinson shook her head. “The Italian style’s subtler. Match the thread, use magic to create patterns that shift and change instead of being static.” 

“Why not enchant the thread?” Longbottom broke in. 

Both girls stared at him. 

“What? Gran likes fashion, she talks about it a lot,” he said. 

“You’d never know it to look at her robes,” Parkinson said with a light laugh. 

Longbottom grinned. “I  _ know _ . It’s cool and all that she killed the vulture, she was quite a huntress in her day, but  _ Circe _ , does she have to wear it on her hat  _ everywhere she goes?” _

Harry had not at all been expecting Longbottom of all people to get the first genuine laugh he’d ever heard out of Parkinson, but he wasn’t complaining. 

Parkinson stuck around for the rest of the train ride, and she kept it light. Harry returned the favor. Keeping up the apolitical story. The rest of the House would be reeling when Harry stepped up third year. Especially Malfoy. 

Speaking of. Harry caught Theo’s eye, mouthed  _ Malfoy _ and cut his eyes in Parkinson’s direction. 

“Oi, Parkinson,” Theo sneered. “Won’t your blond boyfriend be looking for you?” 

“Probably,” she said indifferently. 

Ah. Harry smirked. She was hoping Malfoy would come looking and run into Harry, force a confrontation before they even got to school. Canny. 

He didn’t, though, and she eventually got up and left, since only Harry had put on his uniform already. He’d worn magicals’ standard trousers and light cotton shirt from the orphanage and put on the robe once he got to the train. The rest were wearing split-front robes with the trousers and shirts underneath, so it was easy for them to swap their casual robes for the uniform one. 

Second years and up took four-person carriages to the castle instead of boats. Harry, Longbottom, Theo, and Davis climbed into one, and Harry spent the ride ignoring Theo and Davis’ conversation. Theo was his ally and Davis… he wasn’t sure quite what to call her yet. Other than useful, and meek. Longbottom wasn’t like Harry, growing up in an orphanage, or Theo, carrying the whole family on his shoulders. He was soft. Harry would need to cultivate him carefully for a while. Already it was obvious Longbottom would eventually have to split with his family, and that would not be easy, not in this world where heritage and family mattered so very much. 

“Several of the orphanage kids are getting Sorted this year,” Davis said offhandedly. 

“Oh, right, the one Mrs. Weasley runs, right?” Longbottom said. 

Harry eyed him. “I thought Elphias Doge was the chairwizard of the board.” 

“He is, but he mostly handles the financials,” Davis said. “My aunt’s done some of the runes for their wards and watch-spells, and she says Mrs. Weasley does most of the day-to-day stuff.” 

Longbottom nodded. “She and Mum and Gran are friends, and she comes over a lot, or we go over to the Burrow. She talks about it a lot.” He hesitated. 

“What is it?” Harry said. 

“She worries about them being… Death Eaters’ kids,” he mumbled, hands twisting. His eyes darted around but never in Theo’s direction. “And turning out… bad.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry snarled, hands gripping the seat. “If anything they’d be most likely to  _ turn out bad _ if they’re mistreated in that stupid orphanage.” 

Davis, the only one who didn’t know about his own childhood, frowned a little. “And you care… why?” she said. 

“Why should I not?” he said, warning. 

She looked away. “Right.” 

“How many?” Longbottom said, to break the silence. 

“Five, I think,” Theo said. “Father knows—knew—two of their families.” 

“Which two?” Harry said. 

Theo looked grim. “Annabeth Fawley and Thaddeus Rowle.” 

“Death Eaters,” Longbottom added, with a somewhat accusing look at Nott. 

“What, Longbottom, afraid the big bad Death Eater’s son is going to curse you?” Theo sneered. 

Longbottom flinched. “I…” 

“He’s not his father, Longbottom,” Harry said. “Just like I’m not mine and you’re not yours.” 

“Did you never consider that not all of them were crazed murderers?” Theo spat. “That the Death Eaters might have had actual political beliefs or goals at some point? That it’s stupid to believe enough of our population actually wanted to run around torturing people at will to be a threat? I know it’s the popular thing nowadays but try to keep up.” 

“Theo,” Harry warned. 

Theo shut his mouth and sank back into the bench. Longbottom and Davis had both frozen.

“Sorry,” Theo muttered. 

“It’s… okay,” Longbottom said, some tension seeping out of him. “You’re right, I was too quick to judge you.” 

Theo huffed a laugh. “You are so painfully Hufflepuff sometimes.” 

_ Good thing he is, too, _ Harry thought eyeing Longbottom sideways.  _ That loyalty will be so easy to use if I play it right.  _

“Just like you’re so painfully Slytherin,” Longbottom muttered. 

“And proud,” Davis said primly, now that the conflict had passed. 

Longbottom hooked Harry’s elbow as they were climbing out of the carriages, holding him back. Harry sent Theo ahead with a wave. “What?” he asked. “That wasn’t subtle, by the way. 

“How do you stand it?” Longbottom said. “And I wasn’t trying to be subtle.” 

“Stand what?” 

“They… killed your parents,” Longbottom said slowly. “The… Voldemort did. Him and his Death Eaters were— _ evil _ . Nott’s father, too. And you just… you’re surrounded by them. Nott, Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, Bulstrode.” 

“I never knew my parents,” Harry said. “I can’t miss them, only what we might have had.”  _ Can’t even really miss that, not anymore.  _

“But… aren’t you Slytherins all about family?” Longbottom said. 

“Heritage,” Harry said promptly. “I’ve got nothing left, except the Potter name. That’s mine. No fortune to jump-start me, no fond memories of them, no idea of their opinions except the fact that they opposed a wizard who wanted to kill all the Muggles and ran around blowing things up without any visible pattern or plan. I’ll try to represent the  _ Potters _ well, but no one ever told me I had to be the same as my parents to do that.” He shrugged. “So they’re Death Eaters’ kids, so what? Would you throw the son in prison because the father committed murder?” 

Longbottom shook his head slowly. 

“They can make their own opinions, separate from their parents,” Harry said, beckoning Longbottom out of the carriage. They were some of the last heading up to the castle. “Most of them already have. This might surprise you, but they’ve actually given me more crap for my hair and my old glasses than for blood purity.” 

Longbottom blinked a few times. “That doesn’t make sense. It’s… Slytherin. I hate to ask, I know you can handle yourself, but… is it possible they’re just talking behind your back?” 

Harry sighed sharply. “Are you aware that there’s Muggleborns in Slytherin?” 

“There’s  _ what?” _

Harry raised an eyebrow and waited. 

Longbottom’s expression faded from disbelief into shock. “I… didn’t. Know that.” 

“Well, there are.” Harry willed him to understand this. Slytherin had more than its share of blood purists, but they were the stupid ones, and with the glaring exception of Bulstrode, none of those led the pack. He needed Longbottom to understand this. “Successful, too. They do just fine and no one gives them a hard time for it as long as they’re respectful. You’re judging again based only on rumor.” 

“Sorry,” Longbottom said quietly. 

“It’s fine,” Harry said, forgiving, welcoming. He clasped the other boy’s shoulder. “I just wanted to explain, all right? It’s kind of like people assuming Hufflepuffs are all duffers.  _ I  _ know you’re not, and  _ you _ know you’re not, but outsiders still make assumptions, and it’s still bloody annoying.” 

“What is?” Smith said, falling in on Longbottom’s other side. 

Longbottom grinned. “People thinking our House are all duffers.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Smith said. “But expected. I’ll just prove them wrong. How did you get on that topic, anyway?” 

“Potter was pointing out to me that there’s Muggleborn Slytherins,” Longbottom said. 

Smith looked sharply at him.  _ “Really.” _

“The propaganda has worked so well,” Harry muttered. 

“History’s written by the victors,” Smith said gloomily. 

“But… why would anyone lie?” Longbottom said. 

Harry laughed. He could probably talk for five minutes about why the powers that be wanted Slytherin discredited. But most of his observations were unflattering toward those powers that be, who Longbottom’s and possibly Smith’s families supported. He had to be diplomatic for now. “Politicians always lie, Longbottom. I bet it’s just easier to have the blood purity thing a clear-drawn line in the sand.” 

The concept of authority figures lying seemed to be a new one for Longbottom. Harry left him to stew on it, waved goodbye to them, and went to the Slytherin table. Davis and Zabini had left him a seat between them. He slid easily back into the snake house’s shifting politics like he’d never left. 

Davis quietly pointed out kids from the orphanage as they got Sorted. She might not fully understand Harry’s  _ thing _ with orphanages, but she had seen his interest and responded without being asked. Oriana Grader went to Gryffindor, Mercer Kershaw to Ravenclaw, and three joined the Slytherins—Thaddeus Rowle, Annabeth Fawley, and Samantha Carran. Two noble Heirs and a pureblood or halfblood from an unnobled family. Greengrass immediately struck up a conversation with some of the firsties. 

The other Slytherin first-years avoided those three like the plague. Rowle, Fawley, and Carran clustered together at the very end of the table, faces closed and movements precise. They reacted to the food a lot like Harry had last year, with a little hesitation and a tendency to take too much. Clearly they hadn’t had excess at their orphanage. Or maybe they just hadn’t had so many choices. 

Like Theo, none of them was in a great political position in Slytherin. None of this year’s other firsties had social black marks, judging by how Greengrass interacted with them, which meant the three from the orphanage were outcasts from the start. 

If they were clever, if they handled it well, Harry would reach out to them. The other orphanage kids, too. It was so easy to collect isolated, ambitious people. 

Bulstrode hit Theo with a leg-locker curse on the way down to the dorms. Harry caught him and cast a quick  _ finite _ . Theo gave Bulstrode tentacles on her face and sent her scurrying off to her brother. Perseus flat-out refused to heal them. 

Severus finished with the first-years. The three from the orphanage promised to be almost as problematic as Potter. Fawley, in particular, had the air of someone who would happily grind anyone who crossed her into the proverbial dirt. She wasn’t the  _ most _ unsettling first-year he’d ever met (that award went to Elias Graves, who wasn’t even a Slytherin) but she was definitely in the top ten. 

Even though he knew it was wishful thinking, Severus prayed to Merlin and Circe that the Bulstrode drama from last year was settled and the no-doubt-bitter-as-Mordred orphanage children didn’t cause too much more. 

“Half-blood bint,” someone sneered. 

Severus only barely caught the words, along with about eight other older Slytherins in his vicinity, all of whom honed in on the speaker without appearing to do so. Gregory Goyle, whose minion potential was topped only by Vincent Crabbe and whose rigid-minded blood purity ideals were rivaled only by Bulstrode. And he’d directed it at Tracy Davis, who Potter and Nott were grooming as a follower. Davis snapped back and Goyle lumbered away. Based on Potter’s expression that was not the end of it. 

At the first breakfast of term, Goyle showed up with designer bags under his eyes, disastrous hair, and a nervous twitch whenever he looked in Potter’s direction. If you looked closely, there was a very slight curl of satisfaction to Potter’s smile as he easily conversed with Nott, Davis, and Parkinson. But only if you were very observant. 

Severus spent the entire meal longing for the days before Potter’s spawn was anywhere near this castle. 

Professor Vance opened their first history lesson with a moving picture, blown up to fill the blackboard, of a man pulling a sword from a stone. 

Harry sat down with excitement. The previous year they had covered very early wizarding history, going back four thousand years, and the various ways Muggles had misinterpreted magic into pantheons of gods. The early Sumerians’ earliest ocean goddess, for example, was a witch from long before the invention of staffs, who drew her power straight from the sea. It had been interesting but not particularly relevant to the modern era. Harry had spent so much time filling his own educational gaps that he never got to read much about the things that really  _ did _ interest him, like Arthur and Morgana and Merlin, or the founders of Hogwarts. Much less more recent developments like the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Sorcery or the International Statute of Secrecy or the Wand Registration Act. 

The only two downsides to this class, actually, were the professor and the other students. Vance was nice and smart but she tended to cherry-pick historical events. Harry couldn’t quite figure out the shape of what she was trying to subtly teach them with her selection and omissions, but there was  _ something _ . He’d never have noticed if not for his endless extracurricular studying. And on top of that they had History with the Gryffindors this year. 

“Welcome back to second-year History of Magic,” Vance said to start the class. People settled down, even the rowdy lions. “Anyone recognize this motif?” 

Granger’s hand was first in the air, like usual. “It’s King Arthur Pendragon pulling the sword Excalibur from the stone,” she rattled off. “But, Professor, I thought that was all symbolic myth?” 

“No, Miss Granger, it is not.” Vance tapped the board once with her wand. The image changed to four moving pictures of people: an old man with catlike eyes and a close-trimmed beard holding a staff, a witch in old-fashioned purple robes holding a wand and smirking at the viewers, and two young men. One of them was the one from the first picture, holding the sword, and the other could’ve been his brother with the same fair hair, dark eyes, and sun-tanned skin. Merlin, Morgana, Arthur, and Mordred. “The legend of the sword in the stone is quite a literal one. Arthur Pendragon was born son of Uther Pendragon in 429 Common Era. In that time, wands were comparatively rare. Magical foci could be anything—a sword, a wand, a staff, a shield, or a smaller blade were but some of the more common types. One wizard used his quill, and there are at least three reports of magicals whose cauldrons formed their foci, which they had to carry everywhere. The point was that each foci was keyed to the wielder in some way. The Ollivanders were wand _ crafters _ , not wand _ makers _ , back then. 

“Merlin recognized the threat posed by the Saxons to Britain as a whole, and the threat Mordred posed to the magical community.” She tapped the picture of Arthur, who obediently drew his sword and brandished it for the class. White fire raced up and down the blade in a flash. “He created the sword Excalibur and tied it first the land of England itself, then to the Pendragon bloodline, to give Uther and Arthur greater stability.” 

“So it has nothing to do with being worthy of ruling England?” Granger said, brows furrowing. 

Vance waggled one hand back and forth. “Yes and no. Merlin tapped into magics he didn’t completely understand—things no one understands. Ley lines and such. Every magical family, noble or not, has its own family magics. The Pendragons’ was tied with the magic of England to the point that they became inseparable. In a sense, Uther Pendragon  _ was _ England, and Arthur even more so, since Uther died before he ever had a chance to wield the sword. Drawing that sword marked you as the Heir Pendragon.  _ Worthy _ , not necessarily.” 

“Then why do Muggles have it so wrong?” Granger asked. 

Malfoy snorted. “Because they’re Muggles, Granger. They refuse to believe magic exists until it’s waved in their faces so once we went into Seclusion they made up all these stories to excuse away things that just  _ couldn’t _ be true,” he said derisively. 

She puffed herself up. 

“That’s enough, Mr. Malfoy,” Vance said before Granger could explode. “It is entirely understandable that Muggles would make errors. Their recounting of history is not so complete as ours.” 

Harry put his hand up. 

Vance hesitated. “Yes, Mr. Potter?” 

“Why not?” he asked. 

“Why… is Muggle history less complete?” she said, frowning. 

He nodded. He had his own ideas, of course, but her answer would still be interesting. 

“Well…” Vance hesitated. “Part of it, as Mr. Malfoy pointed out, is Seclusion. There have also been relatively more major upheavals in Muggle society than there have been in ours, in all corners of the globe, that in many cases hampered the accurate preservation of historical knowledge.” 

“Like the Christian Dark Ages?” Dean Thomas pressed. Harry tried not to smile. Someone else had pushed the issue, and a Gryffindor Muggleborn to boot. How convenient. 

“That’s one such example, yes.” Vance cleared her throat. “To return to the lesson… we’ll begin, today, with an overview of the conflict between these four historically important characters. Who can tell me what the relationship was between Morgana, Mordred, and Arthur? Mr. Weasley?” 

“Uh…” Weasley looked up. He’d been whispering to Runcorn. “They were… related, right? Arthur and Mordred were brothers.” 

“Half brothers, actually. And Morgana?” 

Weasley frowned. “She… trained Arthur, or something?” 

“She did,” Professor Vance said, “but that’s far from her only role. Uther Pendragon, a wizard king, married Igraine and they bore Arthur together. Mordred was the son of Queen Igraine and her previous husband, a wizard named Gorlioth. Igraine herself was a Muggle—”

“They were  _ halfbloods?” _ Goyle whispered, except it carried to the entire class, because he didn’t understand subtlety. Harry wanted to curse the other boy and it had only been two days ago that he sacrificed his  _ own  _ sleep for a night to make Goyle’s night a living hell. 

“What, does that not suit your outdated blood purity ideals?” Runcorn jeered. 

Professor Vance flicked her wand with a small  _ crack _ . “Mr. Runcorn, please. Mr. Goyle, ten points from Slytherin for speaking out of turn.” 

Every Slytherin in the class sat up and glared at her. It was the first time Harry had ever been perfectly unified with every single one of them. 

“ _ Yes _ , Mordred and Arthur were both halfbloods. Of the three, only Morgana was a true pureblood as we now think of it. In those days, when magical and Muggle society were the same, we were much less concerned about blood purity,” she said. Harry nodded slightly as he took notes. He’d gotten that impression from his reading. “Morgana was raised by her mother, a former mistress of Uther Pendragon, in a fully magical community in the far north of Scotland. Mordred lived in Camelot as the bastard prince, while Arthur was hidden away for his own safety. 

“Mordred arranged for the Saxons to poison Uther sometime around 455 CE in a bid for the throne. He was eleven years older than Arthur, more experienced with a blade and with his magic, and took the throne with little opposition. He intended to create an alliance with the Saxons, but as he was not of Uther’s blood, he couldn’t claim the sword. Merlin fled to find Arthur in his seclusion and train him.” 

“Why did Mordred want an alliance with the Saxons?” Greengrass said coolly. Several other Slytherins whose hands had been in the air slowly lowered them. 

Vance barely looked at her. “Our sources are unclear. The dominant theory is that he believed the Saxons were unbeatable and he should save what he could of our autonomy with treaties.” 

Harry put his hand up. She could ignore the other snakes but not the Boy Who Lived. 

“Yes, Mr. Potter?” 

“Why is that so threatening?” Harry asked. “Muggle  _ and _ magical history is full of compromises and peace treaties. The Saxons probably would’ve won but not without paying a heavy price and they had the rest of Europe to conquer. England had its own negotiating points. Shouldn’t Merlin have been focused on  _ that _ rather than creating chaos by ousting the king?” 

“It was threatening because the Pendragon magics were intertwined with England by then,” Vance said. Her hands were a bit tight now. “We  _ couldn’t _ have a non-Pendragon on the throne.” 

“We haven’t had a Pendragon on the throne  _ since  _ Arthur,” Bulstrode argued. “He was the last magical king of England.”

“But the current Muggle line descends from the Pendragons, and we haven’t had any other  _ magical _ try to claim the title,” Vance said. “Five more points from Slytherin. The next person to speak out of turn will receive a detention.” 

They stewed in silence. 

“ _ Thank  _ you.” Vance looked sternly over the class. “If I may continue… Merlin did, in fact, have his own tasks to pursue, both to weaken Mordred and delay the Saxon invasion. Arthur was then twenty-six years old, extremely skilled with the nonmagical weaponry we still mastered in that time, but unskilled with magic. Merlin took him and his half-sister Morgana le Fay, who Arthur had never met, to a purely magical community in France for their safety and study.

“Arthur spent another nine years there. The Saxons and Britons squabbled up and down the northern and eastern coasts, but all landing parties were eventually turned back or destroyed.” 

Harry scribbled a quick note to Davis and slid it over to her. 

“During that time, Arthur trained— _ yes _ , Miss Davis?” 

Davis swallowed. “I… am a halfblood, Professor Vance, so I grew up hearing this from the Muggle side as well as the magical. And—my parents both loved history. I remember reading somewhere that Merlin allied with Mordred during that time, even though he thought Mordred’s beliefs about outlawing purely magical communities were dangerous. Is that true?” 

Vance looked around. Even the pureblood and halfblood Gryffindors had their eyes on her, waiting. Those kids had families that would have taught them this kind of history. 

“There have been reports discovered to that effect, yes,” Vance said. “Our records are not completely clear on Merlin’s activities.  _ Regardless _ , he brought Arthur back to Camelot in about 465 CE, traveling by foot and horse as neither Floo nor Apparition had been invented. Arthur was attended by a number of Muggle knights and soldiers, who would later be immortalized as the Knights of the Round Table, and a company of magicals led by Guinevere, Morgana’s friend and Arthur’s love. Morgana herself is believed to have remained in France. 

“Unfortunately, Merlin had intended to time it so Arthur could reclaim the throne and then turn his attention to the Saxon threat. Instead, the Saxons invaded while Merlin was traveling to find Arthur. The Battle of Camlann was already underway when Arthur, Merlin, Guinevere, and the Knights arrived at Camelot. 

“Arthur and Mordred struck up a temporary alliance, because their shared interest was England’s safety. Athur’s magicians were better-trained than Mordred’s, with the exception of Mordred himself, and with their arrival the tide of battle turned. The defenders reclaimed the room where Excalibur in its stone was stored, Arthur drew it, and essentially turned himself into a conduit for the Pendragon magic, which was at that point the magic of England. The battle was won in less than an hour. They say the soil around Camelot turned red and so did the rivers with all the Saxon blood spilled. Channeling such power took its toll, and Arthur collapsed the second the last Saxon died. 

“Mordred was fatally wounded trying to fight his way to Arthur’s side in the final minutes of the battle. No one knows if he was planning to betray his brother while Arthur was distracted, or if he, knowing magic as he did, sensed that his brother might not survive and wanted to save him. His last words were, reportedly, “To Morgana goes the crown if neither Arthur nor I survives.” Yes, Miss Granger.” 

“Arthur died, though,” Granger said. “I thought Mordred killed him.”

Professor Vance sighed. “Mordred’s role in Arthur’s death was very indirect. Had he not stolen the throne in the first place, Arthur would have held Excalibur already when the Saxons arrived. On the other hand, the invaders  _ knew _ there was no one who could wield Excalibur and few highly-trained magicals in Camelot, and probably would have sent a larger force with more magicals of their own if they had. Perhaps Mordred’s treachery allowed for an element of surprise that was key to our victory. We’ll likely never know. 

“The truth is that Arthur lived, thanks to Morgana. Merlin had stepped up as Regent in Arthur’s absence; the King was comatose and hidden on an island to the north for his safety with a contingent of guards. Among them were Guinevere and Lancelot, a witch and a Muggle. While guarding his body, they reportedly struck up an affair.” Professor Vance sighed. “It was uncommon at that time for marital infidelity to be a problem, but it seems a chronic issue for the royals. Morgana alone escaped it and had no known offspring. 

“She arrived out of nowhere nearly two years after the Battle of Camlann. Guinevere, as Morgana’s friend and Arthur’s wife, allowed Morgana in to see Arthur. Morgana broke down in tears and requested that everyone but Lancelot leave the room. 

“When Guinevere felt a surge of Dark magic several hours later, she led the charge back into the room. Morgana sacrificed Lancelot’s life against his will, a form of necromancy that woke Arthur, but at the cost of turning to the Dark. It is for this reason that she is known today as one of the earliest Dark Ladies. She chose Lancelot because, in her eyes, he betrayed her brother and her friend with his affair. 

“Guinevere, furious at the use of Dark magic, attacked Morgana. Morgana barely escaped with her life and was never heard from again. Her last words to Guinevere were that had she not woken Arthur before his recovery was complete, great evil would have befallen England. Arthur returned to Camelot and ruled for the second half of the fifth century and much of the sixth before he established the Wizengamot, tied it into the Pendragon magics, and left the ruling of Britain to the magical nobles. He married a daughter of a now extinct noble family but she bore him only Squibs—supposedly the price for his quasi-resurrection, and the reason the Pendragon line intermarried with Muggles and forgot its magical heritage.” 

For a few seconds, the only sound was the scratching of people’s quills. 

A hand crept tentatively into the air. 

Professor Vance smiled. “Miss Brown.” 

“What was the… the great evil Morgana talked about?” Brown asked hesitantly. 

“Another thing we’re unsure of, I’m afraid,” Vance said. “Some of the best Seers and historians have spent their entire lives trying to unravel that mystery. There were a number of major crises in the rest of Arthur’s rule but none whose solutions hinged  _ solely _ on his presence. It’s possible that the fact of him sitting on the throne prevented some threats from ever forming. It’s likely that we’ll never know.” 

“What about the prophecy?” someone said. 

Vance shifted. “Regarding his title?” 

The girl who’d asked, a Gryffindor with dark hair and brown skin, nodded. 

“For those of you who don’t know, one of Arthur’s titles was the  _ once and future king _ ,” Vance said.    
“Muggles interpreted it to mean that Arthur was healed but comatose after Camlann and lying in wait for someone to awaken him. We have generally, in hindsight, decided that the title came from his sort-of resurrection at Morgana’s hands. His body is in his tomb, which is a national monument known only to magicals, so we know he is in fact fully dead. Though there are some who believe some remnant of the Pendragon line exists and a Seer foresaw the return of Arthur’s heir to the throne.” 

“How likely is that?” Weasley said. 

“Not very,” Vance said with a laugh. “Gringotts has extremely sophisticated blood tests. If a Pendragon heir existed, their bloodline would have been found by now, and we have no records of Arthur ever having had children. Most likely the expression is just wishful thinking. Any more questions?” 

Harry had loads of questions, but none he was willing to ask her. Mainly about the existence of purely magical communities, even in the 400s and 500s when magicals and Muggles coexisted, and what that bit was about Mordred not liking them. Vance had skipped over it and he wasn’t sure if she did it on purpose or not. 

No one else had any they were willing to ask, either, so Vance nodded and moved on. “This year, we’ll be covering the early lives of Arthur, Mordred, Morgana, and Guinevere, the history of Arthur’s rise to the throne, and the rest of his reign. The last two months of the year we’ll work on the formation of the Wizengamot and how that changed the political and social structure of magical Britain. To begin, please open your textbooks to page nineteen.” 

Forty minutes later, the Slytherins left the classroom in a state of controlled fury. 

“That— _ hag,” _ Vane snarled as soon as they were safely in the hallway. “Fifteen points for  _ talking out of turn _ —like the lions weren’t doing  _ exactly  _ the same—”

“Since when is that news to anyone?” Harry snapped. “Slytherins always get blamed.” 

Vane and several others looked at him strangely. 

“A Potter, defending Slytherin,” Crabbe muttered. “The world must be ending.” 

“Dumbledore definitely thought so the day I was Sorted,” Harry said lightly, to hide how his blood boiled at the implication that he didn’t deserve Slytherin. That he wasn’t one of them. Crabbe was a follower and an idiot and Harry was  _ better _ than him. 

Runcorn, in the back of the group of Gryffindors up ahead, suddenly spun around. “Hey, you shouldn’t make fun of Dumbledore!” 

Harry blinked at him. 

“Look at this, the Light Lord needs a twelve-year-old boy to defend him,” Theo laughed. 

“I’m thirteen,” Runcorn snapped. “Early birthday. I’m older than  _ you _ lot.” 

“Whoops,” Parkinson drawled. “The Light Lord needs a  _ thirteen-year-old _ boy to defend him. Our mistake. That makes so much more sense.” 

Weasley and Granger fell back with their friend. “We should always stand up to bullying when we see it,” he snapped. “Even when it’s against a grown wizard.” 

Huh. So he  _ could _ create some decent comebacks. Shocking. 

“Says the one who’s been bullying younger Hufflepuffs and Slytherins all last year,” Zabini mused like he didn’t give a crap how this went. 

“How  _ dare _ you!” Granger shrieked. 

“Careful,” Harry said softly, stepping forward. “The rest of your pride’s gone ahead, leaving you three lost lion cubs with all of  _ us _ . I wouldn’t push your luck.”

“That’s because you’re a Slytherin coward,” Runcorn spat, but his eyes flicked over the Slytherins assembled in the corridor. They’d come to a dead stop now, with the three Gryffindors facing them. 

Harry smiled. “Cowardice, survival instinct, call it what you want. Point still stands.” 

“You wouldn’t be so tough without all your little snakes backing you up, Potter,” Weasley growled. “How about we have a wizard’s duel, traitor? You, me, the trophy room, midnight on Saturday.” 

“Do you know none of the proper etiquette for a duel?” Malfoy said. Harry had to stifle a laugh. He’d only seen Malfoy more shocked and offended when someone insulted his hair. 

Weasely made a face. “All those poncy rules? No thanks!  _ My _ family doesn’t stick with all that nonsense.” 

“Fine,” Harry said, holding out a hand. Shockingly, Malfoy went along with the unspoken command, and shut up. “We’ll duel. Who’s your second?” 

“Edward, obviously,” Weasley said. “Yours?” 

“Tracy?” Harry said, raising an eyebrow. 

She blinked. “Oh—yes, of course.” 

“Excellent.” Harry smiled thinly. “See you at midnight on Saturday, Weasley.” 

The Gryffindors turned around and stomped off. 

“Tell me you’re not actually going to that,” Bulstrode said. 

“Mmm.” Harry absently slid his hand into his pocket and ran his fingers over his wand. “Maybe, maybe not.” 

“You’ll get caught and cost us  _ loads _ of points!” Malfoy hissed. 

Harry just started walking towards the library. They had a free between now and lunch. “Only if one of you lot tattles, and I know no one would ruin such a perfect opportunity to humiliate Weasley.” 

They  _ might _ have wanted to set him up to get caught before—if Gryffindor and Slytherin both lost points it would only reflect badly on Harry, not whoever told—but after that challenge no one would. Theo and Davis flanked him on the way to the library. Harry smirked. It was almost too easy. 

“Are you so sure you can humiliate him?” Zabini said, in a voice that carried down the hall between them. 

Harry looked back over his shoulder at the rest of his year-mates. Zabini and Parkinson, each a little apart; Vane and Hopkins with Greengrass, Goyle with Bulstrode, Crabbe with Malfoy. All watching him with clever eyes. 

“Ask Bulstrode whether she thinks Weasley’s a match for  _ her _ ,” Harry said sweetly, “and then answer that question for yourself.” 

Theo whistled softly. Harry caught just a flash of a grin from Parkinson before she secured her mask again. 

Marcus Flint eyed Harry up and down with the air of someone with visions of victory trophies dancing in his head. “How much flying experience do you have?” 

“Are you an idiot?” Harry sneered. 

Asten Bole elbowed Flint in the ribs. “Did you see him fly, Marcus? He’s got enough experience, and we have time to get him into shape.” 

“And no one else flew nearly that well in tryouts,” Cassius Warrington added. 

Miles Bletchley frowned. “Malfoy…” 

“Wasn’t as good and you know it, Bletchley, stop pandering to his family’s nonexistent influence,” Warrington said. He was a rare example of a blunt and straightforward Slytherin. In Warrington’s case, he managed being that way by staying apolitical and spending all his time on Quidditch. 

Bole smirked at this spirited defense and swung his broom over his shoulder. “C’mon, Flint.” 

“We’re taking him,” Flint decided. “Potter, do you have a broom?” 

“I wouldn’t be using this piece of crap if I did,” Harry said, flicking one of the broken twigs on his borrowed school broom. It was newer than Theo’s, but in worse condition. 

Flint made a face. “Can you get one?” 

Harry considered the favors people owed him, and the alternative, which was admitting he couldn’t afford a broom. “No.” 

They’d seen his robes. They had to know he wasn’t wealthy. 

“We’ll petition Snape,” Flint decided. “Put your stuff away. Bole, show him the changing room and change the name on Higgs’ cabinet. Potter, the Slytherin Seeker manual is your new best friend. Read it until your eyes bleed and don’t talk to me until you’ve got it memorized.” 

Every team had a changing room, lounge, and workout room under the pitch. Harry looked around it with interest, since it was an area of the school he’d never seen before, and he meant to ferret out as many of Hogwarts’ secrets as possible before he left here. The changing room was lined with large cabinets built to store each player’s uniforms, broom, padding and gloves, strategy books, and broom-cleaning kits. Bletchley’s and Pucey’s cabinets were disorganized messes. 

“Does Derrick just change in here with the rest of us?” Harry said. 

“Privacy spells,” Bole said. “We use them if we’re stripping past underwear.” 

He tapped the name on the empty cabinet so it read  _ Potter _ instead of  _ Higgs _ . “Terrence left us all his Seeker playbooks, they’re right in here. Flint’ll want you to know this one front to back inside of a month,” Bole said, handing a worn book bound in green leather to Harry. “Slytherin Seeker plays and tactics. You don’t actually have to have it memorized before the first practice, but you should study it before then.” 

“Noted,” Harry said, putting it in his bag. He dumped the other three in it, too. “Anything else?” 

“Nope,” Bole said. “C’mon, or we’ll be late to dinner.” He hesitated. “Portia says your Potions study group is growing.” 

“It’s a nice group,” Harry said. 

Bole’s expression indicated he knew the group was not  _ nice.  _ “That’s good.” 

News that Harry Potter was Slytherin’s new Seeker went through the school like wildfire. “Playing for the wrong team,” he heard Weasley complaining, “it’s just  _ wrong  _ for a Potter to not be playing for Gryffindor,” while Granger sighed about how Quidditch divided the Houses. 

“Like your lot doesn’t isolate us just fine outside of sports,” Tracy sniffed on the way by. 

Granger said something rude, but Theo grinned approvingly, if not kindly, at Tracy for it. 

“It’s  _ true, _ ” Tracy said, a little defensively. “Quidditch isn’t the reason.” 

“Nah,” Harry said. “Just a symptom. I’ll have fun trouncing Gryffindor this year.” 

Theo laughed. “Everyone knows they haven’t got a decent Seeker since Charlie Weasley left.” 


	4. Snape Hates Quidditch Tryouts

“I  _ hate _ Defense.” 

Theo barely looked up. “Is this because Crouch ignores you, hates Slytherins, or refuses to teach us anything?” 

Harry slammed his textbook down onto the table. “All of the above. This is a  _ disgrace _ to magical education. All  _ theory of defensive magic _ and  _ defusing the situation _ and  _ hello _ , if someone’s coming at you with a brick because they haven’t got magic or at least their wand,  _ they can still bloody hurt you!”  _

“Keep it down,” Theo hissed, glaring around the library. They were in a pretty isolated corner, but Harry took the point. He sat down, still fuming. 

“It’s okay,” a quiet voice said. “No one else heard that.” 

Harry and Theo both shot to their feet, wands out and aimed in the direction of the speaker. 

“No need for that, either.” He was a square-jawed boy with dark hair clipped into an undercut, faint bags under his eyes, and a skinny, underfed frame. Ravenclaw blue and bronze trimmed his robes. 

“Who are you?” Theo demanded. 

The boy bowed mockingly low. “Elias Graves, at your service.” 

“…Harry Potter,” Harry said. 

“Yes, I know.” Graves stood and looked at him. It was a little creepy. Something in his eyes wasn’t… normal. Even Harry, who knew perfectly well he was all kinds of messed up, found himself wary of this boy. 

Theo shoved his wand back in his pocket. “What are you doing back here?” 

“Oh, dear, have I stumbled into something private?” Graves mused. There was no innuendo in his tone, just that same detached interest. “Apologies. I just like wandering. It’s a comfort. I’m not allowed to take books off the shelves without permission.” 

“Why not?” Harry said, frowning. 

Graves laughed. Harry suppressed a shudder. “Too many detentions for illegal research or experiments, I suppose. I can’t imagine why they get so worked up about it, but there you have human moral blinkers at their finest. Be seeing you.” He wandered away in the direction he’d come. 

“Ooookay,” Theo said. “That was… please tell me that look on your face doesn’t mean what I think it means.” 

“I could,” Harry said, still staring in the direction Graves had gone, “but I prefer not to lie to you.” 

Theo sighed. “Are we also going to collect Loony Lovegood?” 

Harry raised his eyebrow. 

“First year Ravenclaw. Social outcast like you would not believe. Not quite up there with Graves in the creep factor, but the birds shun her almost as much.” 

“It’s barely October,” Harry said. “How in Circe’s name is she already a complete outcast? They’re usually better about that.” 

Theo shrugged. “She’s loony, I’ve heard. I forget her real first name. Wanders around at weird hours, makes no friends. Talks about all these magical creatures that don’t exist.” 

“How do you know?” Harry said. 

“…what?” 

“How do you know they don’t exist?” 

Theo frowned. “Well, no one’s ever  _ proven _ them. Only she and her father believe in them.” 

“So?” Harry snapped. “I’ve already learned four dueling-style spells that you said were impossible for anyone below fourth year to master. Just because people  _ say _ there are limits on magic doesn’t make those limits true, it just means people are too stupid or narrow-minded or sheeplike to push the boundaries. Who knows if there’s some kind of weird Seer variant in her family magic and she really can see things other people don’t?” 

By the end of the little speech, his voice was more passionate than he’d wanted and he was leaning forward across the table, hands gesturing as he talked. 

“Er… sorry,” Theo said slowly. 

Harry took a breath and recentered himself. “Accepted. I think, on occasion, that we have… different perspectives on magic,” he said. “You grew up around it, Theo. You know what it’s  _ supposed _ to be able to do and what the  _ supposed _ limits are. I’ve already gone past those limits at least four times just because I didn’t know they were there.” 

“Everything would be easier if more Muggleborns acted like you,” Theo grumbled. “You can be a bloody Mudblood sometimes but still.” 

Harry laughed. “Instead of like Granger?” 

“Ugh.” Theo yanked open his Charms textbook. “Don’t get me started. Let’s sort out this  _ engorgio _ charm so we don’t look like idiots in front of Vihaan after lunch.” 

That night, at their potions practice, Bole showed up dragging Mercer Kershaw and Longbottom had Smith in tow. 

“I’ll owe you one,” Smith said perfunctorily, slamming his cauldron down next to Longbottom’s. “I’m good at Potions but I still need the practice.” 

Harry shrugged. He didn’t actively dislike the blond Hufflepuff, which was more than he could say for most people. “And you?” he asked the Ravenclaw first year. 

Kershaw blushed a little. “We weren’t allowed to brew at the orphanage. Almost all my classmates have already, except the Mudbloods.”

Longbottom flinched. “That’s a  _ slur _ ,” he said angrily. 

“…sorry,” Kershaw said. “Muggleborns, then. Bole said… I could come practice.” 

Harry glanced at Bole, but she didn’t even look up from setting up her own station. “My brother suggested I reach out,” she said drily. 

A gift from Asten, then? Wherever this came from, Harry would accept it. “You’re welcome, as long as you work hard and don’t disrupt anyone else,” he said coolly. 

Kershaw nodded hard. “Yeah, of course. I just want to learn.” 

Ravenclaw, right. Harry nodded and let him join in. It was a little strange tutoring the Ravenclaw in a first-year potion while he went through the one for Friday with Longbottom, Smith, and Bole, but Theo did his own thing and that was one less person to worry about and Harry had always been adaptive.

Quidditch practice was brutal. “You’re twelve, so you’ve got a modified workout, but you still better be in good shape,” Flint said, thrusting a notebook at Harry. “Workouts are in there, follow along and come to me if you’re getting too sore to function so we can modify it. I know pain-testing spells so you better actually be sore and not just whining.” 

Privately, Harry was very sure his pain tolerance would surprise even Flint, but he just nodded agreeably. 

“You fly on this for today,” Flint finished, chucking him a broom. 

Harry glanced it over. Nimbus 1900, decent condition. “Whose is it?”

“Doesn’t matter. Fly it,” Flint said. “Uniforms are in your cabinet. Get changed and get your ass out on the pitch in ten, everyone else is ready.” 

“You said practice started at five,” Harry said. 

“It does, they were here early.” Flint folded his arms and waited. 

Portia had taught him a few basic spells to find hidden things. Harry cast them on his cabinet before he opened it, and his uniform before he put it on. The trousers were heavy canvas with pads on his knees, and they tucked into his ankle-high lace-up boots. For practice they just wore a green-and-gray jumper in place of full uniform robes, and the leather harness, with back and shoulder pads, went on over the top. Harry flicked at the harness as he tugged it over his head. There were two, one on a hook labeled  _ practice _ and one labeled  _ match _ , and the training one had weird little loops on it. 

Flint showed him what the loops were for as soon as Harry stepped back out into the foyer, carrying his borrowed broom. “Hold still,” he said brusquely, clamping little metal clips to the loops. “These are weights. We dial up the density like the weights we use for lift as you get used to them. Fly with weights in practice and you’ll feel like there’s no gravity when the match rolls around. We’re starting you on the lowest setting. Don’t whine, you’re twelve, and I don’t want to have to explain to Pomfrey how we fucked up your growth patterns or anything.” 

“Has that happened?” Harry said, rolling his shoulders. The weights were barely noticeable right now, but he suspected they’d feel a lot worse after an hour in the air. 

“Oh yeah,” Flint said, beckoning him out. Harry noticed that Flint’s weights were both larger and showing a high setting on the tiny indicators. “Happened to a Gryffindor my second year, and a Slytherin a few years before that. Pomfrey lights into all the teams.” 

“Usually it’s a careless captain, and we haven’t got that problem,” Bole said, sticking his head in from the pitch. “Are you lot coming?” 

“Hold your hippogriffs, Bole,” Flint said, flicking him on the shoulder as he muscled by.

Bole grinned at Harry. “Don’t mind him, he’s always grouchy. Ready for this?” 

“Yes,” Harry said, following him out onto the pitch. 

_ No _ , he thought, looking at the rest of the team. They were all significantly bigger. Even Derrick, who was slender, and Bletchley, who was short, both had a huge weight advantage on him. 

“Don’t worry about being small,” Bole said in an undertone as Flint beckoned them all together. Pucey levitated the box of Quidditch balls over. “You’re Seeker, and young, so you won’t be running body-check drills with us yet. After tryouts no one wants to see you get hurt.” 

There was an undertone there, and Harry cocked his head and considered the potential benefits of Quidditch protection. Personally he liked flying more than he cared about the game, and he’d tried out mostly because he could spend more time in the air, but most of the student body took Quidditch really seriously. Slytherins might hate him but if he was their Seeker, they’d be more careful. 

How useful. 

“Right,” Flint barked. “Form up. Thirty minutes of passing drills, Chasers and Keeper. Bole and Derrick, take Potter and warm him up with the Bludgers. Don’t dent him too much. Potter, just figure out the broom and practice dodging. You read the manual?” 

“Yes,” Harry said. 

“Good. So you know you’ll have lots of Bludgers coming your way, and lots of fouls against you.” Flint smiled nastily. “Since you’re little, that means get good at dodging because you’re not big enough to handle a Bludger hit or body-check.” 

Harry nodded. He’d always been good at dodging. 

By the end of practice, two hours later, he was very, very glad for that particular skill. Harry stepped off his broom drenched in sweat and feeling like his harness weights were dragging him into the dirt. There were bruises all over his shoulders, back, and legs from Bludgers he was too slow to dodge, and his hands were sore from clutching the broom, and he saw a Snitch behind his eyelids every time he blinked. 

Somehow, he’d actually had fun. 

“Still alive?” Derrick said, pausing to look him up and down. She was already changed out, while Harry was still trying to get the harness off. “Bole and I didn’t whack you too hard?” 

“I’ve had worse,” Harry said. He paired it with a self-deprecating smile that got a return grin from Derrick, but there was something worried in the set of her eyebrows that made him remember, too late, that normal twelve-year-olds probably hadn’t gotten semi-regularly thrashed in childhood. 

She shrugged it off. “You didn’t do too bad today. We might actually have a shot at the Cup this year.” 

“No  _ might  _ about it,” Warrington said, cuffing Harry on the shoulder on his way to his own cabinet. “Seeker was always our toughest spot. You’re already better than Higgs.” He chucked his broom into its spot and glared at Harry. “But don’t get a big head, he sucked.” 

“I find it hard to believe that there was no one better, if I can outfly him at twelve,” Harry said, finally yanking his harness over his head. 

“There wasn’t,” Bletchley said coolly. “We had tryouts every year.”

Warrington snorted. “Also, Slytherin Seeker is basically a walking target. Most of us have better self-preservation than that.” 

“Good to know,” Harry said, with heavy sarcasm. 

Both Bletchley and Warrington grinned at him, and then stopped immediately as soon as they realized the other one had reacted in the same way. Harry noted that byplay and went back to being quiet and unobtrusive. The rest of the team chatted about the practice as they put their gear away. 

He wasn’t used to the gear and took the longest to change out, which was great because the showers were empty by the time he went to use them. The changing room wasn’t, though, when Harry came back out wrapped in a towel, and he tensed and went for his wand when he saw Flint and Bole waiting for him. 

“Easy,” Bole said. “This is a debrief, Potter, not an ambush.” 

“Do you always shower with your wand?” Flint said. 

“Do you always corner your second-year teammates like this?” Harry sneered, making no move toward his cabinet. He hated the vulnerability of wearing only a towel, and the way it left various small scars across his chest and arms visible, but changing would be admitting how uncomfortable he was. 

Flint snorted. “Our new teammates, yeah. We need to talk about the schedule and your broom.” 

“We’ll wait in the lounge,” Bole said. “Put some clothes on.” 

Harry waited until they’d left before he unwound and hurried over to his cabinet. 

* * *

“Well?” Severus snapped, as soon as Flint and Bole returned to the lounge. 

“He’s changing,” Flint said. 

“About jumped out of his skin when he saw us waiting.” Bole could always be trusted to say more than strictly necessary. “What twelve-year-old takes his wand to the shower?” 

“That one, evidently,” Flint drawled. 

Severus frowned at him. “It’s astounding to me that your apparently adequate vocabulary never seems to make it into your essays, Mr. Flint.” 

Flint didn’t outwardly flinch, but a dull flush colored his ears. “I’ll work on that, sir.” 

“Do, or I cannot guarantee that you pass my class, and you know I do prefer that my snakes are capable brewers.” Severus didn’t allow even a hint of a threat to color his tone. Flint was clever enough to pick up on it, and politeness was a lot less damning in Pensieve review. 

Flint nodded. 

Severus examined them. “Mr. Potter performed adequately today.” 

“Yeah, and he had no idea you were here,” Bole said, settling back into one of the room’s armchairs. 

“I would be shocked if a second year could see through my Disillusionment Charm,” Severus said. “You’re satisfied with his place in the team?” 

Bole glanced at Flint. “Bletchley could be a problem.” 

Severus cocked an eyebrow. 

“Blood purity,” Flint said with a roll of his eyes. “Subtler about it than Bulstrode’s lot, but enough that he might take issue with Potter.”

Fortunately, Severus kept a close enough eye on his students’ politics to have expected this. “You will make it clear to him that Quidditch is to come first,” he said. 

“The minute he does something—” Flint began. 

“No.” Severus shook his head. “Before. I won’t have us faltering during the Slytherin-Gryffindor match next month because of dissension in the team. Are we clear?” 

“Yes, sir,” Flint said. 

“Excellent.” Severus heard the knob begin to turn and braced himself. 

It was growing easier to weather the sight of Harry Potter. For one, the longer Severus knew him, the more he began to see how the boy was different from either of his parents, rather than the similarities. For another, he’d gone to some effort to tame the Potter hair, so it no longer gave Severus flashbacks to second-year James Potter pushing him down the stairs. 

The boy’s eyes widened a bit on seeing Severus but that was his only reaction. “Professor Snape.” 

“Sit,” Snape said. 

Potter did as he was bid, perching on a chair that Severus noted maximized the distance between the boy and the room’s other three occupants. 

“It seems Slytherin has found a new Seeker,” said Severus, who didn’t want this to take any longer than absolutely necessary. “You are permitted use of the Nimbus 1900 during the school term since I understand you cannot purchase one of your own.” 

The boy shook his head slightly and didn’t react otherwise. Severus began to feel unnerved by the twelve-year-old’s self-possession. He could tell Flint and Bole felt more or less the same, although they weren’t as good at hiding it as Severus. 

He’d hidden far stronger emotions from far more intimidating people than this child. 

“Will you be able to after this year?” Severus said. 

“No,” Potter said. 

Severus’ lips tightened. “Should you have access to a broom this summer, would you have the opportunity to practice?” 

Potter took his time forming an answer. “I might for a brief period at the end of the summer.” 

_ While at Nott Manor _ , Severus inferred, based on a conversation he overheard between Larkin Haigh and an apothecary in Diagon Alley. “Owl me, if you find yourself in such a position,” he said drily. “The rest of our team practices on their own in the summers. We wouldn’t want you behind.” 

“I’ll do my best not to be,” Potter said. His eyes flashed at what Severus actually hadn’t intended to be an implied rebuke. 

“Here’s the practice schedule,” Flint said, handing Potter a roll of parchment. “One-hour practices Monday through Thursday as soon as class lets out, with a thirty-minute workout after. Forty-five minutes of cardio on Fridays. Two-hour practices Saturday morning, with lift in the afternoon, and an hour plus cardio on Sunday. We’ve modified yours to account for your age—lower weights and lighter cardio workouts. You’ll catch up to us over this year and next year.” 

Potter scanned the list and nodded. 

“Your academics are not to slip,” Severus said. “Last year’s performance was adequate. Should Quidditch cause Slytherin to no longer hold the top position in your year, I would be displeased.” 

This time, Potter got the message. The Granger chit had come in second. Severus had never met the girl but the colleagues with whom he was on speaking terms had described her as a bossy and condescending child, albeit one who didn’t always intend to alienate people as much as she tended to. He was not to allow a Gryffindor to take the top spot from him. “Yes, sir.” 

“You may go,” Severus said. “I understand you have an essay due in Potions tomorrow.” 

“It’s completed, sir,” Potter said. Severus was accustomed to easily telling how much of a student’s respect was real and how much was mockery, but with Potter he couldn’t at all. Or perhaps he was just expecting mocking false respect from James Potter’s son, and projecting suspicion onto a genuine response. 

He made himself refocus. Too much psychoanalysis usually led him to drink. “Good.” 

Potter nodded and left the lounge, a heavy bag slung over one shoulder. 

“Harry Potter can’t afford a broom and can’t fly,” Flint muttered. “Kid’s a fucking mystery.” 

“Language,” Severus said halfheartedly. He knew they swore, they knew  _ he  _ swore, but because everyone was either a teacher or a student, they couldn’t swear in one another’s presence. One of the social rules Severus loathed so much. 

Flint resisted rolling his eyes, with unsubtle effort. “Yes, sir.” 

“He’s friends with Portia,” Bole offered. 

“Friends,” Severus said, dubiously. He didn’t think Potter and Nott could be counted as friends and they were inseparable. That was in large part because he was pretty sure something was  _ very  _ wrong with the Nott boy, but still. 

Bole shifted in his chair. “Of a sort. They brew together.” 

Severus went over schedules in his head, as well as a few conversations with Slughorn. “Slytherin and Ravenclaw have Potions together?” 

“N—oh shit,” Bole said. 

“You just admitted that they brew outside of class,” Flint deadpanned. “Which is against school rules. To a professor.” 

“I’m not sure where my sudden deafness came from, but I seem to have spaced out of the conversation,” Severus said loudly. He did  _ not  _ want to deal with this, so he was going to pretend it hadn’t happened. Potter and Bole were by all accounts competent students. If they blew themselves up, he’d blame it on Ravenclaw curiosity. “How does Potter know your sister?” 

Flint didn’t even bother hiding his eye roll this time. 

“A study group,” Bole said. 

Much better. “Study group,” Severus said. “Right. Such inter-House unity is something we should cherish. Both of you get out.” 

They did, in a hurry. 

Severus rubbed his temples for a moment before he locked up the lounge and followed them. 

Potter was waiting just inside the entrance hall. “Professor,” he said, almost hesitantly. “Whose broom is it?” 

Severus eyed him and didn’t respond. 

“I would like to know,” Potter said, “in case they think I owe them for it.” 

He didn’t want to be blindsided with an unexpected debt, is what he meant. So very unlike Lily or James. “It is of no concern,” Severus said. “The owner offered you its use for the good of Slytherin, and that is all.” 

Potter looked skeptical of the concept of a no-strings-attached loan like this, but he had the sense to not push Severus any harder, and just vanished down towards his dorm with a polite “Good night, sir.”

Severus returned to his rooms and drank a headache potion instead of firewhiskey. Seeing Potter on the broom had brought back memories of his father. Harry Potter’s lack of flying experience was obvious, while James had clearly grown up with easy access to children’s brooms, but they had the same unconscious grace. 

For a moment, he closed his eyes, remembered sneaking out and doing Chaser drills until the sun came up on a stolen broom, remembered Potter and Black mocking him in the halls for his clumsiness in the air. Remembered Rhymus Jigger trying to convince him to try out, insisting that Severus had potential even if he’d have to work a little harder than some natural talents. Remembered showing up at tryouts in third year, hearing Potter and Black and a whole group of their friends in the stands loudly mocking the idea of Snivellus actually making the team, fleeing back to the dungeons before anyone saw that he’d come. Lily had never heard about the incident. Her friend Marlene McKinnon was there, laughing along with Black and Potter and the rest, and Severus hadn’t wanted to make Lily upset with her friend. 

It was stupid in hindsight. He’d let them run him off the field in shame when he should’ve stuck it out. Severus tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling and swallowed the bitter taste of regret. He forgave his teenage self for the cowardice, if not Black and Potter. 

He’d still barely flown since that day. Severus’ Nimbus 1900 was almost brand-new. At least now someone would get decent use out of it. 

* * *

“What are you learning?” Theo said, eyeing the massive compendium of charms Harry had checked out and was currently poring over. 

“Magic,” he deadpanned. 

Theo hit him with a pillow. Harry cursed him with Jelly-Legs and took his wand. He only gave it back half an hour later when he thought his point had been made. 

Anthony Goldstein shrieked as his elbow slipped and he whacked his forehead on his desk. 

McGonagall broke off mid-lecture and frowned at him. “Mr. Goldstein, that is the  _ third _ time you have fallen asleep today. I understand you Ravenclaws tend to sacrifice sleep at the altar of your intellectual pursuits, but if you could please nap somewhere other than my class?” 

“Of course, sorry, Professor,” Goldstein muttered, blushing hotly. 

No one thought to look at Harry except Theo and Bole. Theo took it in stride but Bole’s gaze was frank and considering. 

A note from her landed on his desk a few minutes later.  _ What’d he do to you?  _

Harry sighed and scribbled a response.  _ Heard Longbottom’s stories lately? _

He sent it back and Bole nodded slightly when she read it. They’d all heard Longbottom’s mumbled confessions about how Goldstein went after him in History and Potions. Harry needed a target for spell practice and Goldstein had just made himself the most logical option. 

Granted, he needed the spell for something else, but still. 

Theo flicked a finger at the strap over Harry’s shoulder. “Remind me why you’re wearing this?” 

“So I’m used to it,” Harry said, making a face. The leather Quidditch harness and weights fit under his robes, barely. Luckily the weights were small and he’d bought his robes with room to grow. “The older players all have heavier weights.” 

“Yeah,” Theo said. “’Cause they’re  _ older.”  _

“I’ll get better faster doing it this way.” Harry fastened his closed-front school robes over his shirt and trousers and studied himself in the mirror to make sure there were no bumps. 

Crabbe came into the bathroom and slammed into Theo from behind, bumping him into the sinks. 

The larger boy went into a stall, chuckling to himself. Theo watched him go with an absolutely blank expression. 

“Don’t get caught,” Harry reminded him. 

“Duh,” Theo said, wand already out. 

He caught up to Harry halfway to breakfast, looking as close to happy as Theo ever did. “He won’t tell.” 

“Of course not,” Harry said. “He’d have to admit you beat him.” 

“Want to come watch?” Harry said in an undertone. 

Goyle scowled at Harry and Theo both, but he didn’t bother to try and join their conversation. 

“Absolutely,” Theo said. 

Harry subtly made sure the Invisibility Cloak was secure in his pocket. His Undetectable Expansion Charms still needed a  _ lot _ of work before he could fit Raza in one, but the Cloak was thin, and it actually fit in an only somewhat expanded pocket without making a lump. It was a last resort for tonight. Revealing the Cloak to Theo was acceptable, barely. Revealing it to Davis was  _ quite _ a risk. 

The boys met her in the common room at eleven thirty. Davis and Parkinson waited together. A sixth year watched them go with a warning to not get caught. 

Harry went over his game plan. 

* * *

If this went south, Tracy fully intended to throw the Gryffindors under the bus. 

It wouldn’t even be hard. They sucked at lying. She wasn’t great, but she was better than a bloody Gryffindor, and Potter and Nott could convince a kneazle its mother was a crup. The Gryffindors would get so indignant the Slytherins were lying they wouldn’t even remember to defend themselves. 

Also, she really, really hoped this duel didn’t end up one of those statistically unlikely cases where the second got called in. Tracy was an average witch and Runcorn was an average wizard in terms of magical power, but she did  _ not _ want to have to duel anyone. Mostly she was here because Potter asked her and that was a public tie she wouldn’t pass up. 

The three of them sneaked through the castle, following Potter’s lead. He knew his way around way better than a second year should. The longer they walked, the more Tracy was sure that he spent a lot of time wandering after hours. 

“We’re fifteen minutes early,” Potter murmured when they got to the trophy room. His icy green eyes swept over the room. Wilhelmina thought he was cute. Tracy just thought he was kind of creepy. It was an unpopular opinion in the girls’ dorms, but then again, they didn’t spend as much time with him as she did. 

She glanced sideways at Parkinson, the most difficult of all of them to understand. Her dark eyes were pinned on Potter. 

Tracy might have been a follower and well aware of that fact, but she was not naïve or oblivious. Parkinson scared her almost as much as Potter, had done so even  _ before _ Vane tried to get into her things halfway through first year and Parkinson did something to Vane’s nail polish that turned it to acid. She went to the hospital wing and had to have all her nails regrown. 

“Do we hide and ambush? Please?” Nott said. 

“No,” Potter said. “I have another idea, for after I wipe the floor with him. We just wait.” 

Parkinson went to poke through some old trophies. Tracy shrugged. It was as good a way to pass the time as any. 

“This witch got like, three Special Awards for Services to the School in the same year,” Nott said, holding up a tarnished trophy from the seventeen hundreds. “Wonder what she did.” 

“Fought off a Cerberus?” Parkinson suggested. 

Potter scoffed. “Like anyone would be stupid enough to let a Cerberus into Hogwarts.” 

“You never know,” Tracy said. “Dumbledore can be pretty incompetent.” 

“The media would have a field day,” Nott said dismissively. 

“It’s Dumbledore,” Tracy said uncertainly. “Mum’s never been shy about her disdain for magical press. She calls the Daily Prophet a biased state-controlled gossip-obsessed rag on a  _ good _ day.”

“She’s the Muggle?” Parkinson said. 

Tracy realized her slip and winced. “Yes.” 

Potter snickered. “Don’t act like I’m going to bite, Davis. My mother was Muggleborn. I’d be the worst kind of hypocrite to judge  _ you _ for it.” 

She smiled, a little weakly. 

Parkinson laughed at them both. She had never given Tracy crap for her heritage but then again she’d never stopped Bulstrode from doing it, either, just watched how Tracy reacted. Potter was doing that now. 

“You have magic,” Nott said lazily. “That’s what matters.” 

“And thank Circe for that,” she said sincerely. She loved Mum but the thought of living like that—like a Muggle—was kind of depressing. They were one of few unnobled families who’d managed to hold onto their ancestral seat, which meant they had wards the Trace couldn’t pierce. Tracy had grown up doing simple magic with a practice wand. Mum had to do  _ everything _ by hand. 

Nott was watching Potter very closely. Tracy couldn’t figure out why. 

Thankfully, the Gryffindors showed up then, breaking the tension. Their voices carried down the hall. Granger was hissing about how they shouldn’t be breaking the rules, Weasley was mocking her to shut her up, and Runcorn was speculating that the Slytherins wouldn’t even show up, being awful cowards. 

“I can’t wait to prove that prat wrong,” Nott murmured. 

Parkinson’s smile glimmered in the darkness. 

Mum told her once about fish that swam with sharks, lived near them, and ended up safe because they were useful. Tracy felt like one of those fish right now—surrounded by colder, meaner versions of herself, sharks with sharp teeth and sharper smiles. 

The lions tripped in the door and stopped short upon seeing the Slytherins. 

“Hey, Weasley,” Potter said. “Funny seeing you here. Out for a stroll?” 

“Cut it out with the sarcasm,” Runcorn spat. He and Weasley both glared at Potter like the colors of his tie were a personal offense. “Let’s just get on with this, shall we?” 

“Gladly.” Potter pulled his weird two-wood wand out of his pocket and spun it idly around his fingers. Everyone’s eyes were drawn to the weirdly hypnotic movement. “Tracy?” 

Hearing her given name from him was still a surprise. “Ready,” she said, pulling her own wand and crossing her arms. She did her best to channel some of Zabini’s arrogant disdain. Nott shot her a look of approval so she must be doing something right. 

Runcorn tapped his wand on his leg and glowered. Tracy raised an eyebrow at him. The little Gryffindor was challenging  _ her _ . Idiot. They were pretty even in terms of power and she didn’t  _ want _ to fight him, but if she did, she had no doubt how it would play out. Tracy had spent all of first year getting into impromptu duels with Bulstrode and Vane. Some soft Gryffindor second year without the stomach to do actual damage wouldn’t be able to win against her. 

Also, in the end, it came down to who wanted to win more, and she was in Slytherin for other reasons than her ability to judge who would have power. 

Slowly, Tracy grinned at him. Runcorn stepped back before he caught himself and scowled. 

Potter and Weasley stepped up into the middle of the room. Tracy and Runcorn stepped off to the side, wands ready but held at their sides. The duelists bowed. Tracy caught a flash of something feral in Potter’s face before he schooled it. A hint of the same twisted expression that had simultaneously intrigued and unnerved most of Slytherin last year. 

“Three, two, one… Mark,” Nott called. 

Tracy’s grip on her wand tightened. 

It wasn’t  _ quite _ a rout. Whatever you wanted to say about the Weasleys—and most of Slytherin had  _ quite _ a lot of unflattering things to say about them—they were no slouches with magic. This Weasley was more fluid with his wand than Potter, more comfortable with the idea of having magic. 

But in the end, it didn’t matter. After trading spells for a minute—and Tracy noticed Potter stuck to a  _ lot _ lower level of spells than he’d used in the infamous Bulstrode duel—Weasley took a  _ tarantallegra _ to the chest. The spasming of his legs left him wide open and Potter disarmed him with ease. 

Tracy caught Weasley’s spinning wand. Heart thumping in secondhand adrenaline. She flipped it around and handed it to Potter hilt first. 

“Thanks,” he murmured, looking up at her from under lowered brows, and for just a second she saw the appeal—

Then the image of that savage, vicious snarl from last year’s duel forced itself onto her retinas and the effect was gone. Tracy smiled tightly and stepped back. 

“Are you done, Weasley?” Potter said. “I’d really prefer that you quit calling me a traitor.” 

“You  _ are _ ,” Weasley said plaintively. Runcorn ended the dancing curse and Weasley got to his feet. “Your parents were Gryffindor.” 

Potter sighed sharply through his nose. “They didn’t raise me, Weasley. I have no memories of them. Why in Merlin’s name would you expect me to be so influenced by who they were?” 

“But they died for you!” Granger said, hair crackling. 

“Yep,” Potter said. “And I’m doing my level best to live up to their sacrifice. Make something of my life. Ergo, ambition.” 

The Gryffindors faltered. Tracy’s eyes widened as she realized Potter had managed to put a Slytherin value in terms the lions would understand and stopped them in their tracks. Nott and Parkinson smirked—obviously they’d caught on, too. 

Tracy grinned fleetingly before she controlled herself. 

“And now, the encore,” Potter said.  _ “Somnus.” _

Nott’s voice rang out with his, and then Potter’s voice snapped off a second time, nailing Granger before she got her wand all the way up for a shield. 

Tracy blinked. She hadn’t known about this plan but damn if she was going to show that in front of Parkinson. 

Nott whipped out a pack of Exploding Snap cards. “Who wants to play a game?” he said with a leer. “We’ll have to stop halfway through… and one of us has to sit out.” 

“I’m terrible,” Potter said. “I’ll watch.” 

So Tracy was subjected to the very  _ odd _ experience of playing half a game of Exploding Snap on the floor of the trophy room next to three sleeping Gryffindors with Nott and Parkinson while Potter poked around old medals. 

“We’re halfway, ish,” Nott noted. 

Potter nodded and pulled his attention away from the trophies. “Put the cards in their hands, or near them like they’ve fallen. Prop them up, too.” 

Tracy and Nott did most of the propping, while Potter and Parkinson arranged the cards. It only took a few minutes and then the four of them stepped back to examine their tableau. 

“They’ll wake up before morning, though,” Tracy felt like she had to point out. Even though challenging Potter felt—weird.  _ “Somnus _ is a pretty weak spell in general, and no one comes around here.”

“Not without a tip-off,” Potter said. 

“If you go to anyone they’ll rat you out, too,” Parkinson said. 

Potter shook his head but didn’t explain. 

He led the three of them down one floor and into an unused classroom. “Wait here,” he said quietly. “Twenty minutes.” 

Then he disappeared. 

For a few minutes, Tracy and Parkinson and Nott eyed each other silently. 

“Anyone else know what he’s doing?” Parkinson said. 

Nott’s eyes were calculating. “I can guess.” 

Both girls heard the unspoken  _ but I won’t tell _ and let it drop. Nott leaned on the wall and hummed some weird creepy tune. Parkinson pulled out a nail file. Tracy eyed her. Parkinson put a lot of work into being seen as the vapid fashion-obsessed bimbo, even in Slytherin, but something about it seemed  _ off _ . 

Potter came back almost twenty minutes later on the dot, grinning ear to ear. “Filch is about to walk in on three Gryffindors in the trophy room who fell asleep in the middle of a game of Exploding Snap,” he said. 

Parkinson stared at him. “You got the Squib on your side?” 

“No one’s ever nice to him,” Potter said. “It’s amazing how chronically ostracized people respond to a bit of kindness.” 

Nott shifted. 

“Filch,” Parkinson muttered, shaking her head. “On the side of a student. I don’t get you, Potter.” 

“Yeah, no one does,” he agreed. “Let’s go.” 

They filed out of the unused classroom. Tracy found herself grinning. A good night on all counts. 

Of course, that was when Peeves ricocheted around the corner and screeched at them like one of Mordred’s conjured demons. 

Tracy shrieked. Parkinson’s wand was in her hand already, same for Potter, but both of them registered that spells wouldn’t do anything against Peeves.  _ “Run,” _ Potter hissed. “Filch gave me carte blanche for tonight but other teachers’ll come—”

“STUDENTS OUT OF BED!” Peeves bellowed, right on cue. “STUDENTS OUT OF BED ON THE SECOND FLOOR!” 

“Peeves!” Potter barked out. “Five galleons’ worth of Dungbombs for you to shut up and leave us alone tonight.” 

Peeves’ eyes popped out of his head. “Oooh, ickle Potty knows how to plaaaay,” he singsonged. “Deal, Potty-wee-lad, but I won’t be getting you out of this tonight, oh no I won’t!” 

“Do you  _ have _ five galleons for Dungbombs?” Nott hissed. 

Potter kept on running down the hall. They could hear doors slamming. “No,” he said, “but people owe me favors who can—just—who knows a place?” 

“Here.” Parkinson yanked them aside. Tracy understood at once. 

“Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom,” she said. “Brilliant.” 

“Yes, I am,” Parkinson said with a smirk. 

The four of them tumbled inside. It was big, dark, and echoey. All the girls knew to avoid this bathroom because of Myrtle’s tendency to flood the place, sometimes literally while you were on the toilet with your knickers down. “Quick,” Tracy hissed, “into the stalls.” 

Somehow she ended up jammed into one with Nott. She wasn’t sure if this was the best of three bad options, the worst, or the middle. He didn’t even look at her, though, his entire attention focused toward the hall. 

Someone gasped daintily. Parkinson hissed something inaudible from the next stall over. 

“Are you Myrtle?” Potter said, his voice smooth, soft,  _ friendly _ . He was such a good actor it sent chills down Tracy’s spine sometimes. 

“Yes… who are  _ you?” _ the ghost girl said. 

“Harry Potter.” 

A flick of Myrtle’s robes appeared through the stall wall separating them and then disappeared. “Who are you hiding from?” 

“The teachers,” Parkinson said, still softly.  _ Vulnerable.  _

“I should tell on you, you know,” Myrtle said severely. Tracy closed her eyes. 

“Please don’t,” Potter said desperately. “If you do we’ll get in ever so much trouble… and they might come back and watch your bathroom, wouldn’t they? Because they’d know students hide in here. And then you wouldn’t have as many people to talk to.” 

Myrtle was silent. “I suppose… no one wants to talk to a  _ dead _ girl, though. So does it matter?” 

_ “I _ want to talk to you,” Potter said. “I think you’re interesting. What’s it like, being dead?” 

Myrtle gasped again, but in delight this time. Tracy opened her eyes and stared at the wall between her stall and Potter’s like it would reveal his secrets. Next to her, Nott was shaking in silent laughter, hands clamped over his mouth. 

“It’s very strange,” Myrtle said in a husky voice. “Like… floating, and not being quite… real. Real enough to feel things in  _ here _ , but not out  _ here. _ And lonely.” 

“You must’ve seen all sorts of things, though,” Potter said. “Met so many interesting people, even if only for a moment. Could I come back and talk to you sometime?” 

“Well… I suppose. It is a  _ girls’  _ toilet, though, you know.” 

Potter laughed softly. It invited you to join in. “Yes, I’m aware, given that I’m hiding in here with two girls and a girl ghost. I’d only come when there’s no one in here, though.” 

“All right,” Myrtle said, sounding delighted. “Would you like me to cause a diversion so you can get away? I do love blowing up the toilets.” 

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Potter said warmly. 

Myrtle giggled.  _ Giggled _ . Dear Merlin. 

Potter eased open his stall door. Nott schooled his laughter and followed suit. The four of them crept out of the bathroom, and then down the hall a little ways, wary of banging doors and searching teachers. 

They’d barely taken refuge behind a tapestry when a massive  _ bang _ , shrieking, and the sound of rushing water came from behind them. Several teachers started running instantly. 

Potter peeked around the edge of the tapestry. “Vihaan, McGonagall, Sinistra,” he reported softly. Tracy winced. Getting caught by them would’ve been  _ bad _ . Sinistra was fine but McGonagall wasn’t nearly as open-minded and fair as she liked to pretend and Vihaan hated Slytherins no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise. “I think they’re gone, let’s move. There’s a secret passage about fifty meters down the hall that lets out near the Hufflepuff common room.” 

“How do you know where the Hufflepuff common room is?” Parkinson asked. 

Potter’s smile was a gleaming flash in the darkness. “Lucky guess.” 

They made it back to the common room without incident. 

* * *

Severus stopped mid-bite and stared at the Gryffindor table. 

Weasley, Runcorn, and Granger were clearly being isolated. Aggressively isolated. Which was bizarre, because as the brilliant Muggleborn, Granger embodied McGonagall’s political beliefs and was shamelessly favored by nearly all her professors. Weasley’s family was wealthy, with a father high up in the Ministry and the mother running a prominent charity, Dumbledore’s protégés and allies. Runcorn was a halfblood, but his mother was from a very old family, and being a Gryffindor friend of Weasley and Granger had automatically made them quite the Golden Trio. 

Until today. 

Sighing, he resigned himself to listening to the staff table gossip, which he usually tuned out. It was banal and he could usually feel his brain cells dying as he listened. Fortunately, he didn’t have to listen very hard; he and Horace usually sat with one another so they could discuss Potions journals when Horace wasn’t tipsy, and Horace was very looped in with the gossip. 

Today was no exception. “Horace,” he murmured, “ _ why _ is the Gryffindor hourglass so low? Not that I’m complaining, of course, but even the Weasley Demons haven’t lost one hundred fifty in  _ one night… _ ”

Horace leaned in. “Quite a tale, m’dear boy, quite a tale… Argus found them sleeping in the trophy room midway through a game of Exploding Snap! He said his familiar alerted him to the students out of bed, the clever creature. Peeves started bellowing down the second-floor corridor, so there’s some suspicion that other students were out and about, but no one caught them. Nasiche and Charlotte found the baby lions… as you know, neither of them is overfond of that House.” He winked. “It was quite a setback for dear Minerva, eh? This’ll change the House Cup betting pool!” 

_ Which you should not, as a professor, participate in, _ Severus thought but did not say. They had had that argument before and it always ended in a stalemate. “How… exciting,” he said drily, returning to his breakfast. 

Exciting, and  _ odd _ . His eyes, out of some instinct, drifted to his own House table. None of them was so clumsy as to mock the Gryffindors or announce their complicity. 

But. Nott and Parkinson were swapping conspiratorial glances every few seconds, and Davis kept subtly glancing at the hourglass. Potter was unreadable, as usual, but if Nott and Parkinson and Davis were involved, so was he. Undoubtedly. 

That boy was  _ trouble. _

Severus sighed heavily. Loathe as he was to admit it, Harry Potter was  _ not _ his father. Nor was he his mother. He was something not either of them, something else, something much more Slytherin than either Lily or James ever could have dreamed. 

Would he have been this way raised by them, Severus wondered, or had his childhood destroyed any Gryffindor part of him left over from his parents? The world would probably never know. 

Well. It wasn’t his problem. Slytherin political battles were well and truly out of his jurisdiction as long as they stayed in-House and the physical damage was kept to a minimum. Potter could collect his minions, play the game, fight his way to the top or fail, and Severus could keep himself  _ out of it. _


	5. Luna Lovegood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry belated christmas to everyone who's been demanding some Luna in this story

“Potter.” 

Harry glanced up, welcomed Bole to his table with a nod. “Bole.” She still paused for permission in every class even though they’d been in Transfiguration together all year. 

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. 

Something seemed a little different today, though. She sat down with him and Theo and they took notes and moved on to the practical—Harry got the spell on the second attempt and swallowed a smug grin as McGonagall grudgingly awarded Slytherin points—and there was definitely something on Bole’s mind the whole time. Harry helped both of them with the spell while wondering whether he should wait her out and force her to bring it up, or just end the tension and ask himself. 

In the end Bole caved. As they were packing up, she said quietly, “Potter… there’s a pretty odd girl in my House. First year. Luna Lovegood. Brilliant as they come but completely loopy, and she needs—friends. People. Can I bring her on Saturday?” 

Brilliant outsiders. How perfect. “Go right ahead.” He paused. “How do she and Kershaw get along?” 

Bole grimaced. “He tends to leave her out like the others.” 

Harry shrugged. “Well, maybe they’ll both get a friend out of it.” 

“Like you care about that,” Theo muttered behind him. 

“Outcome still the same,” Bole pointed out. 

Both boys stared at her. 

Bole grinned. “Just because I want no part of the Slytherin games doesn’t mean I don’t know how to play.” 

“I like her,” Theo said to Harry. Bole laughed and they finished packing up and going to their next class. 

Potter slid into a seat across from her in the common room. “Miss Davis,” he said with a smile. 

Tracy looked up at him from her book, tried to disguise her wariness as flirtation. She’d done her share of practicing like the other second-year girls but unlike them she’d never aim it at Potter, not for real. “Potter.” 

“Vihaan’s essay?” he said. 

“Yes,” Tracy said, frowning at her parchment and textbook. “It’s frustrating.” 

“Try page two hundred twelve,” he suggested. “There’s a footnote that helped me.” 

Tracy flipped to the page in question, scanned the footnotes, and sure enough there was a reference to a fifth use of the  _ aguamenti  _ charm. “Thanks,” she said. 

“Of course.” 

Potter sat in silence for a few minutes. Tracy worked on her essay and tried to figure out what he wanted. 

“Your aunt works in runes, I think?” he said finally. 

“Yeah,” Tracy said even though she knew he already knew the answer. “She’s one of the leading researchers in Britain.” 

“Perfect.” Potter leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. She could never figure out how an undersized twelve-year-old boy had the confidence and body language of someone way older. “I have an opportunity she might be interested in. Would you mind writing her, just to let her know I’ll be in touch?” 

“Not at all,” Tracy said with a slight smile. “I’m sure she’d be delighted.” 

“It’s somewhat… confidential,” Potter said delicately. “I’m sure you know how slow it can be to go through the Experimental Charms and Magical Research Committee.” 

The picture got a little clearer. “Believe me, Aunt Niamh has had her disagreements with the Committee, she’s not a fan.” 

He nodded, and smiled a bit. “Perhaps you might mention that, when you write her?” 

“I’ll do it tonight,” Tracy said. 

“Thanks ever so much, Miss Davis.” 

Tracy smiled back at him. “Aren’t we on a first name basis by now?” 

Potter sat up a little straighter and looked at her with more interest. She was still figuring out the rules of their unspoken arrangement, testing if and how much she could push back against him. Nott did, all the time, but it was one thing for Nott to treat Potter almost as an equal and another thing entirely for Tracy to do it. 

“I suppose we are, then, Tracy,” he said slowly. “Call me Harry.” 

So she could show some spine, thank Circe. Tracy’s smile widened and she returned to her essay. 

_ Aunt Niamh,  _

_ I heard from Mum in her last letter that you’ve achieved another Mastery, in Sanskrit runes this time. Congratulations! I was going to ask you if you think signing up for Runes next year is a good choice. Obviously it’s a really useful branch of magic but is it useful to people who don’t get to Mastery level? I don’t think academia is quite my thing.  _

_ Remember I told you I’m sort of friends with Harry Potter? He and I have gotten a bit closer this year. (Not like that, though, and if Mum mentions anything to you about tacit betrothals, PLEASE shut her down. I am so not interested I can’t even begin to tell you. He’s not my type. At all.) Anyway, Harry mentioned something to me about a runes project he thinks you’d be interested in taking on. He was a little cagey on the details, but I got the sense it’s a really interesting opportunity. It’s also confidential. My guess would be someone’s doing rune work without ECMRC approval and they need off-the-books help sorting it out. I told him you’re not a fan of the Committee and you’d probably be happy to help out. He’s going to write you himself, I think, but I just wanted to give you a warning.  _

_ How was your holiday in Marrakesh? I’ve heard the markets there are incredible, even the Muggle ones. Mum said we might get to go this summer!  _

_ Love,  _

_ Tracy _

_ Rune Master Davis,  _

_ Please forgive my forwardness in writing you, but I’m a school friend of your niece Tracy and she’s mentioned several times that her aunt is an accomplished Master of Runes. I’m a second year, so I haven’t been able to take Runes in Hogwarts yet, but the subject seems really interesting, especially since I witnessed some of the uses it can be put to this summer.  _

_ I also saw the effects of the Experimental Charms and Magical Research Committee’s restrictions on runes work. The people I spoke to have what seems to be a really complicated rune-based enchantment, but they can’t legitimize it or expand their business because a lot of it was done without ECMRC approval. Tracy hinted that you might be interested in studying the enchantment they created in exchange for helping to streamline it and make the whole thing official. Would you be willing to agree to a confidential appraisal of their work? I can arrange things from their end. I’m sure you understand why I’m not offering any details just yet—if you’re at all uncomfortable with the situation, of course you can decline. I would really appreciate it if you at least consider the situation.  _

_ Sincerely Yours, _

_ Heir Harry of House Potter  _

“Clever,” Theo said. “Cleverly worded, at least. Why are we doing this for some random optometrist? Just ‘cause she was nice to you?” 

Harry folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope. “I prefer to pay my debts, and the optometrist was good to me,” he said. “But no, that’s not the whole picture. I’m a celebrity with a name and no public image at all. My situation means I can’t do anything to openly create one.” 

“So you’re starting with the normal people,” Theo said, nodding. 

“Exactly.” Harry addressed the envelope to  _ Runes Master Niamh Davis  _ and handed it to Aoife. The snowy owl vanished from the owlery in a flurry of wings. “I’d rather they not talk about Harry Potter, who thinks he’s too good for the normal people and stays secluded all the time. Harry Potter needs to be genuinely liked.” 

Theo smirks. “It’ll also help when you get older and the paparazzi goes to work.” 

“You think they will?” Harry said. The Muggle paparazzi were pretty bad, he’d heard enough popular culture at Muggle school to get the idea that celebrity figures were relentlessly hounded, but wizarding media was different. For one thing, there was literally only one major newspaper in all of magical Britain. 

“Oh, absolutely,” Theo said. “They’re limited by you being a kid and never going out in public, not to mention approval of your guardian which we all know is about as likely to happen as Snape singing an aria, but trust me, when you start doing things other than going to class, people will notice. There’s been something like three dozen books published about you in the last decade?” 

“Seriously?” Harry stared at him. 

“All useless dragon dung,” Theo said dismissively. “But people buy it.” 

“Huh.” 

“What are you writing now?” 

“Letter to the optometrist. Can I borrow your owl?” 

Theo whistled Dunlaith down from the rafters while Harry dug his second letter out of his bag. 

_ Dear Malinra,  _

_ I hope you and Dake are doing well, and that your business is, too. You no doubt guessed that I don’t spend much time in public, disguised or otherwise, so I’m extremely grateful that replacing my glasses was such a great experience. I was worried for a while that having to reveal who I really am would be a mess, and it wasn’t, so I’d like to thank you for that.  _

_ Since I spoke to you and Dake, I’ve been thinking about the ECMRE and the problems it causes people, and while I can’t do anything about the ECMRE just yet, I think I might have a solution in your case. A school friend of mine has an aunt who’s an accomplished Runes Master. She’s reportedly quite opposed to the ECMRE after some bad experiences with it and I could reach out to her to see if she’d be willing to drop by and perform a confidential appraisal of the runic enchantments on your shop. In exchange for studying your work, and adding her name to the ECMRE report, she could help you streamline and legitimize what you’ve done so you can expand your business and not get charged for breaking experimental magic regulations. I would be very vague, and I’m quite certain that if she said no that she wouldn’t be able to figure out who I was talking about. Would you be willing to look into making this arrangement?  _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Harry Potter _

“You’re taking a risk,” Theo said. “What if they say no?” 

“Then I’ll tell Runes Master Davis they backed out,” Harry said. “It wouldn’t be that big a problem. But I’m pretty sure they’ll say yes.” 

They did. 

Harry couldn’t be there, but after a few letters back and forth, he arranged for Malinra and Dake to get in touch with Niamh Davis. 

A week later, in the middle of October, Aoife and Malinra’s barn owl descended on him during breakfast. The other Slytherin second-years unsubtly eyed him while he read them both. No one had missed last year that Harry Potter never got any mail, and now suddenly two owls in one day. 

“Fan letters, Potter?” Malfoy sneered. 

“What, you jealous?” Tracy said. 

“I prefer not fearing for my life in public,” Malfoy said. 

“What, you  _ don’t? _ ” Harry said in feigned surprise. “I mean, with your family’s popularity and all.” 

It felt like everyone reeled back except Theo and Tracy. Vane actually choked on her pumpkin juice. Harry noticed two of the orphanage kids suddenly watching him from among the first years and sneaked a subtle wink their direction while everyone was staring at Malfoy. 

The blonde prat sputtered for a second. “I—my father has nothing to do with Mother and me anymore,” he said stiffly. 

“Only because he’s not allowed visitors,” Parkinson murmured sweetly. 

Harry barely hid his surprise at that. She was really breaking from Malfoy’s clique, if she was publicly sabotaging him like this. 

“My father was a murderer,” Malfoy said like the words tasted foul. “I’m hardly the celebrity target that you make, Potter.” 

“Mm, no, but at least the people that want to kill me are all either dead or in prison,” Harry said. 

Theo grinned. On the other side of him from Harry, Crabbe leaned away a little. “History is written by the victors and all.” 

“So not you, then,” Bulstrode butted in. 

“Not my father,” Theo said. No one missed the wording or the way his fingers played over the knife next to his plate. 

Greengrass cut the tension with a comment about McGonagall’s expression being more pinched than usual and did anyone know why the Hufflepuff hourglass had dropped thirty points since yesterday? 

Harry tried not to smile into his breakfast. 

Deirdre was careful in the Great Hall. The Slytherin table, during mealtimes, was a microcosm of House politics if you knew what to look for, although they had to be more subtle than usual since they were in public. This morning had been uneventful, other than Warrington making a brief and unsuccessful play against Pascal, who occupied a decent place in the House hierarchy. 

Then her peripheral vision caught a small but visible motion as every single second-year recoiled from the table and from Potter in unison. 

Deirdre tuned out her companions and eyed the younger kids. It was hard to tell, from down here, what exactly was going on—first and second years sat at the end of the table nearest the staff, and then the middle of it was occupied by hierarchical chaff, while the third of the table by the doors was where real political maneuvering happened. She was pretty well situated in the hierarchy and preparing to move higher so there were quite a lot of people between her and Potter, but she could see it was some kind of spat between him and Malfoy. Nott was enjoying every second of whatever was going on. 

“My sister told me some interesting things about him,” Pascal murmured at her elbow, quietly enough that no one else could hear. 

“That so,” Deirdre said. The Haighs were Nott vassals, a potential conflict of interest she’d ignored up until now because the Notts were too outcast to have any political influence at all. With their Heir joining up with Potter, that could change, but it hadn’t yet, and in the meantime Pascal might have some useful information. 

He nodded very slightly. “Good on a broom. Clever. Creepy. He impressed Viscount Nott.” 

_ “Did _ he now.” Deirdre eyed Potter; someone had defused the situation and the second years looked more normal. “Surprising.” 

“I didn’t think anyone could,” Pascal said. “I mean, it’s kind of moot; he’s too young to have any bearing on us in-House.” 

“Maybe,” Deirdre said slowly, “but it’s  _ Potter _ . The rules are a bit different for him whether he likes it or not. And even if he does stay apolitical, and doesn’t challenge above his age, we should pay attention to what he does after.” 

Pascal nodded slightly. “Fair point. I’ll keep an eye on him.” 

Deirdre agreed, thinking,  _ we all will. Or at least, anyone with half a brain.  _

When Harry first slid into a seat near the orphanage Slytherins, they didn’t notice him. 

In fairness, he’d applied a Notice-Me-Not charm, his new favorite spell, but he didn’t think it was a very strong one because he’d only just learned it. “Draco Malfoy is an absolute wanker,” Annabeth Fawley was complaining as he perched on the edge of the couch. 

“Shh,” Samantha Carran hissed. “Voice down, we’re in the bloody common room.” 

“Like anyone bothers to pay attention to us,” Thaddeus Rowle mumbled. 

Harry leaned over and dropped his Notice-Me-Not charm. “Work on your handwriting,” he advised Rowle, pointing at the boy’s half-finished History essay and ignoring how they all jumped. “Vance can be a little uptight about it.” 

All three kids stared at him. 

Harry slid off the edge of the couch and onto the seat like normal, forcing Rowle to shift over and let him join them. “What did Malfoy do that’s got you in a snit?” he asked Fawley. 

“What’s it to you?” she said. 

“I’m not much of a fan of him either,” Harry said lazily, leaning back and grinning at her. Carran blushed a little bit. Interesting. “And everyone loves gossip.” 

“Let’s just say he thinks not being able to afford imported, tailored robes is a character flaw,” Rowle sneered. He and Fawley were glaring at Harry with enough heat to boil water. 

Harry smirked. Tracy had overheard that conversation and mentioned it to him, and he’d jumped at the opportunity. “And what did you say?” 

Their scowls were answer enough. 

“I find a good retort in that situation is that you’d rather have well-looked-after secondhand robes than so get lazy about looking after your things,” Harry said. “Or just point out that if he hasn’t earned the money that paid for those robes it hardly makes  _ him _ any more interesting, it just means his father is, and he’s done fuck all to live up to that.” 

“What would you know about secondhand robes,” Rowle snarled. Fawley elbowed him in the ribs but not quickly enough to stop the words. 

Harry swallowed a predatory smile. This was going just how he’d wanted. “Pay more attention,” he sneered, plucking at his own robes. “Secondhand, with growth charms so they’ll wear out in three years but fit that whole time. Malfoy’s been giving me grief for it since our Sorting.” 

“You’re Harry Potter, why the hell do you have  _ secondhand robes?”  _ Rowle demanded. 

“ _ Shut up _ ,” Carran hissed. 

“You might want to think about learning not to blurt things out,” Harry told him with a raised eyebrow. “People will call you a Gryffindor. And as to why, well. It’s a long story but let’s just say you’re not the only war orphans this world forgot about as soon as Riddle died.” 

They stared at him, masks all forgotten in their shock. 

Fawley recovered quickest. “No one  _ forgot _ about you,” she sneered. 

He shrugged. “They didn’t care enough to look for me, either. I find myself not very fond of a system that lets children slip through the cracks to the point that coming to Hogwarts was the first time I’d been allowed to eat decent food and as much as I wanted.” That would get the point across about his childhood without giving away too much. “What I’m trying to say here is that people will be stupid and go for your obvious weaknesses, but you can anticipate that, and prepare yourself. As long as you  _ actually _ take decent care of your robes,” he added, with a pointed look at the wrinkles in Carran’s sleeves, and slipped a thin book onto the table with a wink. 

Annabeth watched Harry Potter walk away, mind spinning. 

“D’you think…” Thaddeus trailed off but both girls knew what he meant. 

“His robes  _ are _ secondhand,” Samantha said. “You can see it in the stitching and hems, they’ve been reenchanted at least once already.” 

“How did they let  _ Harry Potter  _ end up in the kind of childhood that he didn’t always get enough food?” Annabeth said. “This makes no sense.” 

Thaddeus frowned. “Well… he said  _ hidden away _ . Makes it seem like it was supposed to be a safety thing and they miscalculated?” 

“Might he be… Muggle-raised?” Samantha whispered. “I mean… if they wanted to hide him…” 

“No way,” Thaddeus said reflexively. “Like they’d give Harry Potter to filthy Muggles.” 

“Shh,” Annabeth hissed. Thaddeus was like a brother and she’d suspected they’d be in Slytherin together for ages, but he really needed to think before he spoke sometimes. “Not so  _ loudly.”  _

“We’re in the Slytherin common room, we can say filthy Muggles if we like,” Thaddeus said, but his voice was a little lower. 

Samantha rubbed her nose. “No, not really, ‘cause then someone might overhear and then it’d be  _ known _ that we said filthy Muggles. Just because it’s saf _ er _ to say that stuff here doesn’t make it  _ safe.”  _

“If Potter wasn’t in  _ our  _ orphanage…” Annabeth said, cutting off their argument, “then he had to have been  _ somewhere _ that… I mean, it fits. He’s… not like the other second-years. Not… right.” 

They looked across the common room, at Potter sitting in an armchair. Nott and Davis sat in other chairs on either side of him. He was shorter than Nott, wasn’t wearing tailored robes like Malfoy two tables over, and the edges of the textbook open in front of him were ragged and worn. But there was also something about his bearing, something… wary, like he thought he might get attacked any second. 

“Okay, good point,” Samantha said.

“There’s still no  _ way  _ he was with Muggles,” Thaddeus said. 

Annabeth shook her head. “It seems crazy but… it’s a pretty good way to hide a magical baby you don’t want anyone to find, and it’s the Muggle-lovers in charge.” 

Samantha and Thaddeus stared at her, then at Potter some more. 

“Don’t say anything,” Annabeth said quietly. “To him or… anyone. If we’re wrong we’d look stupid and if we’re right he wouldn’t be happy we spread it around.” 

Thaddeus looked around uneasily. “I heard he did something to Greg Goyle last year… strung him up by the armpits in the common room for trying to get into Potter’s things.” 

“There was that thing with the Gryffindors and the midnight duel, too,” Samantha added. “Emma Vane told me about it. She didn’t know details but he tricked them somehow, cost them like a hundred fifty House points…” 

“And then that duel with Bulstrode,” Annabeth finished. They’d all heard the rumors about that. Wandless magic, and he’d won even though Bulstrode broke the rules and used Dark magic in a first-year duel. Annabeth had fought five unofficial duels so far—the other Slytherins were especially testing toward her and Thaddeus and Samantha because, like Potter pointed out, they went for easy weaknesses. 

“Yeah, let’s not piss him off,” Thaddeus agreed. “Oh, Annabeth, I was going to tell you—Mercer told me Potter runs some kind of Potions study group since we didn’t get to practice brewing outside of school like our classmates.” 

“ _ Really,”  _ Samantha said. She loved potions and it was a sore point with all of them that they couldn’t practice outside of school. They had it near as bad as the Muggleborns—the caretakers at the orphanage were indifferent to the kids at best but at least they were magical themselves. 

Thaddeus nodded. “Potter’s got a couple of Hufflepuffs and a Ravenclaw that do it with him, and Nott sometimes. The Ravenclaw—she’s got a brother in Slytherin—she brought Mercer along.” 

“And you think we should go,” Annabeth said. 

“It can’t hurt to ask Mercer,” Samantha said. “I’d love to go.” 

Annabeth shrugged. “I might not, my Potions grade is fine and I’m not that interested, but… we can ask Mercer to bring it up sometime.” 

Samantha grinned. “Try and tell me I can’t practice, huh? Idiots.” 

“And it’ll be good to have an in with Potter,” Thaddeus said quietly. 

“What’s this, then?” Samantha said, poking the book on the table with her wand. It didn’t immediately do anything, which was probably a good sign, but also not a guarantee of safety. 

Annabeth and Thaddeus both cast a few diagnostic charms on it, the only ones they knew, which they’d had to learn pretty much as soon as coming here. Thaddeus’ last name and Annabeth’s weren’t very well liked and they’d already gotten cursed mail. The book came up clean, and they opened it cautiously. Samantha, always the loudest of them, started laughing. 

Reading over her shoulder, Annabeth saw it was a book on basic household charms. 

“What the bloody—” Thaddeus hissed. 

Annabeth cut him off with an elbow to the ribs and pointed at a section of the table of contents someone had underlined in green ink.  _ Clothing Charms—Neatening, Ironing, Freshening, Etc. _

Samantha tucked the book into her bag with the kind of covetous glance that said she’d have the thing memorized inside of a week. 

Annabeth went back to her Charms reading, after she noted that Thaddeus did start minding his handwriting on the History essay like Potter said. The fact that he offered advice might mean he wanted to… ally with them. Or something. And he seemed to get the secondhand robes thing. 

She glanced up at Potter again and caught him eyeing her calculatingly. Annabeth raised an eyebrow, caught an edge of a fleeting cold grin before he went back to his own homework. 

Honestly, Potter unnerved her, but she’d never be able to ally with anyone like Malfoy anyway. He was an elitist snob. And Annabeth might be poor and live in an orphanage but she’d be damned if she let that hold her back all her life. 

Mercer Kershaw asked, hesitantly, if his friends Samantha Carran, Annabeth Fawley, and Thaddeus Rowle might come to Potions tutoring. Harry said  _ yes, of course they can _ and pretended not to notice Theo’s evil little smile in the corner. 

Portia—he’d gotten onto first names with her now, decided that the caustic, observant Ravenclaw was worth keeping around—just muttered something about Slytherin politics that only he heard. 

“Potter is such a  _ wanker _ ,” Draco snarled. 

Pansy didn’t even look up at him, which was  _ annoying _ . Vince and Greg and Millicent agree with him, and even though Millicent’s got no political clout at all right now, she’s valuable support or will be in the future. Draco was actually glad Potter took her down so thoroughly last year because now she’s beholden to him instead of them being equals. He can play it so she’ll be stuck there by the time he gets to the top of the Slytherin hierarchy, but honestly he wanted Pansy, not Millicent. Pansy was more subtle.

Also, there was the  _ thing _ between their families that no one knew the status of. 

“A wanker,” Greg agreed when no one else said anything. 

Draco huffed and sits back on his couch.  _ His _ , because he was a Malfoy and a Black and Father might have been on the losing side of a war but that didn’t make their family legacy any less impressive, and that meant once he claimed a spot in the Slytherin common room people left it alone. He was a second year so the older set didn’t care about impacting him at all but still. No one in the first or second years would challenge him, least of all the kids from the orphanage, whose families hadn’t managed to survive at  _ all _ . Draco looked disgustedly over at them. Fawley and Rowle were Sacred Twenty-Eight names, and the last of each family was huddled in a corner with their schoolbooks spread around them being ignored by the entire House. 

“You know, it might be smarter to ally with them,” Pansy murmured, following his gaze. 

“No way,” Draco sneered. “They’ve got no families, nothing to their names.” 

“Their  _ Sacred Twenty-Eight _ names.” 

He nodded. “It’s a disgrace, those children being in an orphanage.” 

“Yeah,” Pansy said, “and they’d probably appreciate a Malfoy reaching out to them.” 

“You’re joking, right?” He shuddered. “Aren’t there Muggles working in the orphanage? A few? They’ve probably given those kids lice or something. I mean, two of them are well bred at least, but Carran’s halfblood, and they don’t even know who her wizarding parent was. For Rowle and Fawley—breeding only does so much. They’ve got to prove themselves before I’d lower myself to that.” 

“Outside Slytherin, you’ve barely got more influence than they do,” Greengrass murmured. 

“But I  _ will. _ I’m still a Malfoy,” Draco said. Mother said it was crass to remind people that the Malfoys were technically Earls, on par with the Blacks and a step above even the rest of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, so he didn’t say it now even though he wanted to. They’d be thinking it, though. Of course they were. The Malfoys’ fortunes had fallen but they were still  _ superior.  _

Greengrass shrugged like it didn’t matter to her at all. 

Draco concluded that the others were more interested in doing their homework than complaining about Potter, so he yanked out his Charms textbook with a scowl. It was hard to concentrate, though. He glared over at the back of Potter’s head, a few tables away in the section he and Nott and Davis had claimed for themselves. 

Wanker. 

Luna looked around the classroom. This was quite interesting, more so than people usually were. For one thing, her fellow students generally were too silly to put together a session like this, with people from several Houses. For another, she could tell by smell that several cauldrons were bubbling with potions they hadn’t done in class. And for a third, it was Harry of Potter leading the group. He was particularly interesting, insofar as any person could be. 

At the moment, he was studying her and pretending not to while she unpacked her potions things next to Portia of Bole. Granted, he was quite a bit more subtle about it than most, but she liked pretending her situational awareness was nonexistent and he probably thought she wasn’t paying attention. That was slightly disappointing. She’d hoped he would catch on. 

Well. He was only a year older, after all, and they hadn’t even properly introduced themselves. Maybe he would catch on after he spent more time with her. 

“Second-years, we’re brewing this past Friday’s potion again, to correct any mistakes we made,” Harry of Potter said, laying out his potions tools very precisely. She noted that they were secondhand and in good condition, while his cauldron was mostly new. Also that the other children followed his lead instinctively, even the other first-years, who hadn’t been working with him very long. “Make sure the preservation jars for your salamander blood were sealed right—if it’s not fresh, the Strengthening Solution will be about as powerful as a cup of coffee. First years, what potion did you do this week?” 

“Sleeping Draught,” Mercer Kershaw said. Luna had not paid him any attention until Portia hesitantly asked if she’d like to join their Potions study group, because he had in no way involved himself with her life. She studied him now because the people collecting around Harry of Potter were quite an  _ odd _ group. 

Harry of Potter nodded. “If you have questions, feel free to ask. I’ll keep an eye on you.” 

He seemed perfectly polite, she supposed. A bit cold, a bit rigidly controlled. 

Portia of Bole, Zacharias of Smith, and Neville of Longbottom were working on their Strengthening Solutions. Luna watched them for a few minutes while her water slowly came to a boil. Theodore of Nott was lurking in the corner reading a book and unsettling everyone, though she couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose. He seemed like a generally unsettling person. Luna liked being able to predict people, and he was unpredictable. 

“Lovegood.” 

She looked up at Harry of Potter. “Yes, that’s my name.” 

He raised one eyebrow. 

“Were you asking a question?” Luna said, very innocently, because she suspected he did not generally use question marks and might be irritated by someone calling him on it. 

Harry of Potter only raised his second eyebrow and said, “I wanted to get your attention.” 

“You have it,” Luna said, and then considered. “Most of it. There are Nargles in the room.” 

“…Nargles,” he said. 

Neville of Longbottom’s potion gurgled ominously. Portia of Bole and Zacharias of Smith rushed to help him. The other first years, orphanage children and already friends, had forgotten her already, like her classmates tended to do. Luna nodded very seriously. 

“What are Nargles?” 

“Mischievous spirits,” she said happily. No one ever asked, which made a nice change. Perhaps he was more interesting than she’d thought. “Impulsive spirits. They infect mistletoe, you know, that’s why people kiss under it when normally they wouldn’t.” 

Harry of Potter leaned back and studied her. Luna realized, rather abruptly, that she was doing the thing again that made people think she was crazy. It was difficult to tell, because as much as she liked watching people she couldn’t seem to understand them, and certainly not how to interact with them. He wasn’t giving her the  _ crazy _ look, though. Two months into term and she was already familiar with that one. It was probably why Daddy never allowed her to play much with other children. “Have you ever seen one?” 

“Yes,” she said. “There’s one now, look.” Luna pointed at Zacharias of Smith, who had gotten impatient with his salamander blood and poured far too much into his cauldron because he didn’t tip the vial slowly. 

“Impulsive,” Harry of Potter said, “and mischievous. Like sprites?” 

Luna smiled wider. He  _ was  _ interesting. “I suppose… sprites live in doorknobs, though. And tree-knots. Small places. Nargles float about, and they’re invisible. I’m trying to discover how to keep them away.” 

Harry of Potter nodded very slowly. “Do let me know what you learn.” 

“Oh, I will,” she said. “Knowledge should be shared. I’m going to write a book someday.” 

“I look forward to it,” he said. 

Luna remembered to look closely for a bit of mockery. She’d been training herself into the habit, since Ginny of Weasley told her condescendingly that the other children were making fun of her with their questions, not actually curious. Harry of Potter didn’t seem like he was mocking her, though. 

Sleeping Draughts were boring, so she deliberately skipped an ingredient and then stirred the wrong way. It spat sparks and turned green instead of the blue it should be. Luna hummed and traced a rune she’d seen on a book cover over the potion with her wand. Its surface began to shimmer. 

“That’s not a Sleeping Draught,” Mercer Kershaw said, eyeing her cauldron. The other three, whose names Luna had forgotten to remember, looked between her and her cauldron curiously. 

“No,” Luna agreed. “Not anymore, at least.” 

“Are you experimenting?” 

She examined her potion for a few seconds and then dropped in one of her hairs. The shimmer went away. “Sort of.” 

“Why sort of?” one of the other first-year girls said suspiciously. 

“Experimenting implies a plan,” Luna said, only paying partial attention. The longer she stirred the greener the potion got. “I don’t have one.” 

“…don’t blow us up, please,” the other girl said. This one was the leader of their little group, Luna could see, even though she’d been pretty quiet up until now. Her family name started with F, she thought. 

If she was going to keep coming to these things, she should probably know who they were. “What are your names?” Luna asked, fixing her eyes on them. If her attention wandered she might not remember. 

They exchanged startled glances. “Annabeth Fawley, Heir of Fawley,” the leader said slowly. 

“Thaddeus Rowle, Heir of Rowle,” drawled the Slytherin boy. He was looking at her like she was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and therefore not worth her time. 

“Samantha Carran,” the last girl said. Luna wondered if she was aware of the way her chin lifted in preemptive defense, or how Thaddeus of Rowle and Annabeth of Fawley angled themselves unconsciously a little closer. 

Mercer Kershaw opened his mouth. “Er, d’you…” 

“I remember you,” Luna said. “You were there last week when Marley and Katya took my trunk.” 

He flushed a dull red. 

Samantha Carran and Annabeth of Fawley watched this curiously, but Thaddeus of Rowle just went back to his potion and ignored them. He was, Luna decided, rather unpleasant, but she forgave him some of his unpleasantness after seeing how he angled to protect Samantha Carran against people who were rude because she wasn’t noble. They had grown up in an orphanage and she didn’t think it was a very nice place. Thaddeus of Rowle perhaps had a right to be unpleasant toward unfamiliar people. 

“Lovegood,” Annabeth of Fawley began. 

“Oh, Luna’s fine,” Luna said. 

“Luna, then.” Annabeth of Fawley did not invite Luna to use her first name in return, but that was okay, Daddy said Slytherins were always more suspicious than they had to be at first. “Would you like to join our study group? We meet on Sunday nights, to finish our weekend homework.” 

It would probably be good for her to have a study group. Luna often needed a reminder to finish her homework; there was so much time on the weekends it was easy to get distracted by more interesting things than essays. “I would like that,” she said. 

Thaddeus of Rowle rolled his eyes. Luna frowned in his general direction for a moment. 

“We meet in the library after lunch,” Samantha Carran said. “Usually around one.”

“Okay.” Luna murmured a spell Mummy taught her when she was very little, to make ink, and wrote a reminder on the inside of her arm with her wand tip. Otherwise she might forget. 

Samantha Carran watched, and then sidled a little closer. “What are you doing with your potion?” she asked hesitantly. “I like potions.” 

Luna looked at her for a few seconds, while feeling the potion bubble. Not with her hands but with her mind, the part of her that was tuned to the world and the ideas that made it up. Not many people knew anymore that runes were the basis of all magic, including potions. Luna did and she listened to them. She didn’t know if she could explain to someone else what she was doing with her potion, if they couldn’t hear the runes themselves, but she might as well try. She shifted to the side and let Samantha Carran come closer and started writing down what she was feeling. 

Harry watched Luna Lovegood integrate with the other first-years. He hadn’t been sure about her, for all he kind of lit into Theo for dismissing her out of hand. The orphanage children he understood much better than this girl with the owl-like grey eyes, and he wasn’t entirely surprised other people thought she was crazy, but there was something else going on in her head that interested him. Harry didn’t think she was crazy. Just that she looked at the world differently from other people. 

Nargles, for Merlin’s sake. He’d thought she was messing with him until he made the connection to Smith’s rash mistake. Now he thought it was either a metaphor, or maybe she really did believe it was a mischievous spritelike creature that made people get careless and impulsive, and honestly it didn’t matter. Not when he could tell she was also intelligent, in her own weird way. And lonely, isolated, cast-off by others, unaware yet that it bothered her. He suspected it would as she got older. He suspected Luna Lovegood could be very useful. 

Annabeth was surprised when Luna Lovegood actually showed up the next day, looking more like she was a bit of pollen blown into the library on accident than a girl who’d walked there on purpose. She blinked owlish eyes at Annabeth as she sat down. “Am I early?” 

“No, the others are just late,” Annabeth said. Best not to clarify they’d seen a pair of Ravenclaw second-years wandering off alone and gone to take revenge for some teasing the orphanage crew got earlier that week. The orphanage kids didn’t always get along when they were younger, but faced with mockery from all sides in Hogwarts, she’d found it much easier to befriend those like Mercer and Oriana who Annabeth’s crew hadn’t been close with before. 

“Are we doing any subject in particular?” Lovegood asked. 

“What do you need to work on?” Annabeth said. 

“Transfiguration,” said Lovegood dreamily. “Professor McGonagall said if I don’t start turning in more of my homework assignments she’ll have to start giving me detention.” 

Annabeth blinked. “You just… skip assignments? And don’t get detention?” 

“Points lost, but most of the Ravenclaws don’t care, it happens to all of us. Apparently we don’t win the House Cup very often,” Lovegood said. “Have you gotten detention?” 

“For turning in an essay that was  _ too long,”  _ Annabeth said. “It was six inches longer than it had to be, because I  _ like  _ Transfiguration.” 

The words snapped out with more acid than she expected. Annabeth narrowed her eyes at Lovegood. The girl made it too easy to talk to her, simply because she didn’t seem like she actually cared all that much. 

“That’s odd,” Lovegood said, and yeah, she definitely looked like she didn’t care other than how  _ odd _ it was. 

“Yes.” Annabeth shuffled one essay under the other more angrily than she meant to. “And that Mud—gleborn Ritchie Coote turned one in that was  _ eight _ inches too long and McGonagall  _ gave him points for effort.”  _

Thinking about it made her as boilingly angry as she had been that day. Annabeth shut her ice and reined herself in. 

“How irritating,” Lovegood mused. “Have you kept doing it? To see how long she keeps it up.” 

Annabeth snorted. “I don’t have a death wish.” 

Lovegood didn’t question this, either because she’d lost interest or figured out what Annabeth meant. If she made a habit of costing Slytherin reputation and points like that, she’d face worse in-House than petty impromptu first-year duels and the absolute indifference of the older kids. 

Thaddeus and Oriana showed up in five minutes, both sporting mussed hair and mean grins. Lovegood looked at them. “I don’t know you,” she said, before either of them could speak. 

“Oriana Grader,” Oriana said without missing a beat. “You’re Loony Lovegood.” 

“We met her at Harry Potter’s study group,” Thaddeus said unhappily. He flopped into a seat and scowled at Lovegood. Annabeth kicked him under the table and mouthed,  _ be more subtle.  _

“Huh.” Oriana sat down and frowned at Luna. “So are you crazy? Everyone says you’re crazy.” 

“Everyone?” Lovegood said. Oriana didn’t look unsettled even though having Lovegood’s full attention like that was really unsettling. Gryffindor nerve. “I hadn’t realized everyone knew me.” 

“It’s an exaggeration,” Oriana snapped. 

“Oh. I don’t think I’m crazy. Other people do. The definition of  _ crazy _ is ‘mentally deranged, especially in a wild or aggressive way.’ I don’t think I’m wild or aggressive.” 

Oriana stared at her for a few seconds. “Okay. You know what, who cares, as long as you can help me with my homework. What’s the difference between Transfiguration and Alchemy? McGonagall gave us a bonus question on the homework and I need extra credit points.” 

“Transfiguration changes things that are already there, rearranging matter on the most fundamental levels,” Lovegood said. “Alchemy creates new things from pure magic, new matter from energy.” 

“In  _ English _ ,” Oriana said, already digging out a quill. 

Samantha and Mercer seemed a little surprised when they came back and found Thaddeus, Oriana, and Lovegood engaged in a heated argument about something from McGonagall’s last lecture and the differences between what she told the Slytherins and Gryffindors versus the Ravenclaws. Lovegood’s spotty memory didn’t help. 

“ _ What  _ did she say distracted her in class?” Samantha hissed, sitting down next to Annabeth like she thought something might explode. 

“A Nargle?” Mercer said. 

“Imaginary creatures,” Annabeth said. “Or maybe we just can’t see them, who knows, and who cares, she’s bloody smart when she stays on topic. C’mon, let’s do our Potions work.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your comments, i'm living for them right now


	6. Quidditch Played, Secrets Shared

“Ten galleons’ worth of Dungbombs,” Elio Cohen said in an undertone, depositing a package on the couch next to Harry.

“Consider your debt repaid,” Harry said absently, sliding into his bag one-handed and turning a page with the other. 

Cohen hovered. 

Harry looked up. “What?” 

“Er—just—I have another problem,” Cohen said. 

A nicer person might have reminded him that he still owed Harry two minor favors and probably shouldn’t let himself get into another when he’d just paid one off. Harry didn’t bother. They both knew what Cohen owed. He sat up a little straighter but left Cohen standing. “What is it?”

On the other end of the couch, Theo grinned. 

Professor Crouch got their attention with a sudden, jerky rise to his feet, as usual. “Today we will be reviewing the fundamentals of the Disarming Charm,” he rapped out. “It is properly classified as a charm, but like many other charms, it is a vital part of defense and so taught in this class rather than Charms. Copy your notes off the blackboard.”

“We’ve heard this lecture a hundred times already,” Tracy complained under her breath. “And we’ve been on _expelliarmus_ for a _week_ , I thought we’d get to do practicals today.” 

Theo laughed. “You expected Crouch to actually teach?” 

“Quiet down,” Professor Crouch barked, glaring. 

Harry narrowed his eyes at Theo. The two of them had slipped off into a side corridor, and now had their wands out. “ _Gorgos!”_ Theo said, slashing his wand through the air. Harry winced when the spell hit his sternum, but other than a brief sort of cold and heavy feeling, nothing happened. 

Both of them frowned. “There should be a visible change,” Theo said. “You still just looked normal. No stone.” 

“Try again,” Harry said. 

Grimly, Theo lifted his wand again. _“Gorgos!”_

The first quidditch match of the year was Slytherin versus Gryffindor. Harry walked the dungeons until three in the morning, at which point Raza finally threatened to bite him if he didn’t go back and at least try to sleep. _“If you are tired and fall out of the sky and die tomorrow, you’ll leave me with only these stupid landplodders who can’t understand me,”_ he said. _“That’s not allowed.”_

Harry was too distracted to even argue. 

Raza woke him up, too, with his tongue in Harry’s ear. 

“Hey,” Harry complained, shoving him away and sitting up. 

_“Someone is outside your bed,”_ Raza said. 

Harry listened, heard shuffling feet and uncertain mumblings. Good—they knew better than to just barge into his bed by this point, whoever was out there. It sounded like more people than just Theo and Goyle. 

Raza’s head swung side to side, and his tongue flickered. _“The landplodder who leads your flying team.”_

 _“Quidditch,”_ Harry said, very softly. 

_“I don’t care.”_ Raza slid down off his chest and worked his way under the sheets. _“Make it warm before you leave.”_

Harry pushed warming magic into the blankets, sat up, and pulled the curtains back, thankful that he had decent pajamas now and didn’t have to worry about changing inside his curtains. 

Flint was standing in their door scowling at Goyle and Theo. He switched his scowl to Harry as soon as he noticed him. “The hell kind of wards are on your bed, Potter?” 

“The safe kind,” Harry said, sliding off his bed. “Isn’t it a little early for breakfast?” 

“Safe for _you_ ,” Goyle muttered.

“We eat breakfast in Snape’s office and head to the pitch early, or risk getting ambushed in the halls,” Flint said. “Derrick pointed out we forgot to tell you. Be at Snape’s in fifteen.” 

“Okay,” Harry said. 

Flint cast a last disgusted look at Goyle and retreated, slamming the door behind him.

“This is the last time you wake me up this early on match day, Potter, or else,” Goyle growled. 

Theo snorted. “Or what exactly?” 

Goyle glared at him. 

“No, keep talking,” Theo said, apparently sincere. “I really want to hear how you’re going to finish that thought process.” 

“Shut up,” Goyle snapped, stomping back over to his bed. 

Theo laughed. 

Goyle whipped around and pulled his wand. 

Harry ignored the impromptu duel and started getting dressed. 

Goyle crumpled to the floor, moaning and covered in some sort of slowly moving yellowish slime, at about the same time Harry fastened his uniform robe. “Nice,” he said. “What jinx is that?” 

“Found it in Father’s study. I’ll teach it to you later.” Theo nudged Goyle’s hand with his toe. “It’s not poisonous. I think.” 

“Go tell Crabbe to have a look at him, so he doesn’t die in our dormitory,” Harry said. 

Theo sighed theatrically but Harry heard him banging on the other second-year boys’ dormitory as he stepped out into the common room. 

The rest of the team, sans Bletchley, was already assembled in Snape’s office. They all wore rumpled school robes and most were clutching coffee and looking somewhere between half-asleep and frantically worried. Snape himself was nowhere to be seen. 

“Eat,” Warrington said, shoving a plate in Harry’s direction. 

He made himself down eggs and toast and a few bites of a fruit. No one talked. Bletchley wandered in after a few minutes looking like he hadn’t slept at all. Flint’s glare was boring holes in the wall and Derrick kept muttering plays to herself. Harry ran over Seeker maneuvers in his head. 

Snape stalked in, robes billowing, at eight. “Breakfast is underway. You may proceed to the pitch,” he said without preamble. 

Flint stood. “Let’s go.” 

Snape plucked Pucey’s mug from his grip as they passed him. For a few seconds Pucey stared at the mug, then Snape, before he realized it was empty and kept walking. 

Harry was the last one out of the room, and deliberately didn’t look up at Snape. 

They went out a side door he hadn’t known about yet and straggled down to the pitch. A few other students were already heading down for good seats but no one bothered the Slytherin team. Flint unlocked their team’s suite and everyone piled into the lounge and sat in more silence. 

Eventually, the noise of students filling the stands overhead went from distant and barely noticeable to a dull, consistent rumble. Harry watched the minutes tick by on their wall clock and tried not to feel too nervous. 

“Right,” Flint said finally, leaning forward. Everyone sat up and listened. “Strategy like we’ve been talking about.” He pointed at Derrick and Bole. “If you come off there with fewer than twenty solid hits each, show up early for practice on Monday, because you’ll be doing laps. _With_ your weighted harnesses on. Body check the Demons if you have to, I don’t care. Bletchley, remember to watch Spinnet, she’s wicked at feints on goal. Pucey, Warrington, today’s about power. The Gryffindor Chasers are smaller and quicker in the air—we won’t be able to keep up, so pass hard and hit hard, use _legal_ body checks, don’t let them break away and use it. Potter—I hear mixed things about McLaggen but he’s got thirty pounds on you, easy, so don’t let him get close enough to body check. Watch out for the Demons—they like going for the other team’s Seeker. You’re small and quick so you’ll be a harder target than Higgs was but still be careful.” He looked around at the whole team. “I said legal body checks and I mean it. We lost last year because we gave them a chance to call biased fouls. If _one_ of us fouls a Gryffindor, Hooch will favor them the rest of the game and the whole school will say it was justified.” 

Harry nodded along with the rest. They got the picture. 

Flint cracked his knuckles. “All right. Let’s do this.” 

“Don’t be nervous,” Bole said under his breath, as they filed into the changing room. “You’ll be fine. Everyone more or less goes easy on second-year players.” 

Harry shot him a look as he tugged the padded harness over his head. “Who said I was nervous?” 

“Everyone’s nervous their first game,” Bole said. “You should’ve seen Bletchley at his first game, two years ago. He was a _mess._ ” He clapped Harry on the shoulder, not seeming to notice how Harry flinched away from the contact, and walked off. 

Harry shrugged into his uniform robe and rolled his shoulders until it settled right. The fabric was a little heavier than he was used to, but it was tailored to fit over his padded harness without restricting his movements, and he expected the silver-trimmed emerald green would look flashy once they were in the air. 

Derrick paused on her way by him. “Make sure your gloves are secure,” she said. “Higgs did his up too loosely one time and fumbled the snitch.” 

“Thanks,” Harry said, making sure the straps around his wrists were securely fastened. 

“Yep. Good luck, Potter.” She swung her broom up over her shoulder and headed out to the lounge. 

Bletchley and Pucey were the last to assemble in the lounge. Flint looked them all over, nodded approval, and had them line up behind him in year order. Harry was so busy feeling dwarfed at the back of the line that he almost didn’t notice Flint start walking until the door opened and a rush of noise from the stadium roared in. 

Walking out onto the pitch was like getting slapped in the face with a solid wall of noise. Harry inhaled, deep, and felt adrenaline flood his veins. He could get _used_ to this.

The game went by in a blur of green and red and gold. Students screamed, beaters shouted, Madam Hooch’s whistle shrieked time and again as fouls piled up. The Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry was at its peak during quidditch games and Harry had never felt like more of a target than he did while darting through the air avoiding one bludger after another. The Weasley twins were indeed targeting him, letting their spectacular keeper stall the Slytherin chaser formations while they focused on the Slytherin team’s weakest link. 

Not for nothing, though, was Harry one of the youngest seekers his House had ever fielded. He’d had too much practice dodging projectiles to be put off by the Weasley twins. Even if they _were_ as vicious as the Slytherin beaters. 

In the end, Harry spotted the snitch fluttering by one of the stands. It was packed with a mix of Ravenclaws and Gryffindors who all screamed bloody murder when he turned and shot towards them. The Gryffindor seeker, McLaggen, had followed him as soon as Harry started to move, but he was much too slow and much too far away. 

Harry stretched out his hand. The snitch darted away, but he followed it doggedly, so close to the stands his quidditch robes brushed them as he turned. His broom shuddered under his hands. Harry tightened his grip and willed it forward, stretching out his fingers desperately–

Cold metal hit his fingertips and he pulled up, thrusting his fist high in the air. Wings beat weakly against his leather quidditch gloves. A wall of people in green and silver roared in happiness. 

Yes, Harry could definitely get used to this. 

“…doesn’t belong in our House.” 

Harry glanced up. The voice belonged to Draco Malfoy, and the listeners were a group of third and fourth years, not especially high in the hierarchy from what he had seen but not especially low, either. It was impossible to tell how much they agreed with Malfoy’s calculated whining. 

“Appalling breeding, and he’s flouted our manners and customs since his first day,” Malfoy went on. “He didn’t even bother to introduce himself properly on the first day. Just jumped in and acted all arrogant about being the _Boy Who Lived.”_

In his mouth, Harry’s press moniker tasted as bad as curdled milk. Harry pretended that he couldn’t hear them, even though Malfoy had deliberately positioned the conversation in the Slytherin common room so Harry _would_ hear. 

“That was the first day, Malfoy, are you really holding onto that grudge?” one of the fourth years said. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Malfoy scowl. “It’s just the first example that came to mind, Cray. Obviously his mother’s blood is showing through.” 

Harry paid a bit more attention to the group, and scribbled a tiny note in the margin of his textbook. Theo read it sideways and nodded almost too slightly to be seen. Tracy, sitting in an armchair to the right of Harry and Theo’s couch, visibly swallowed. 

The group was all purebloods.

“What’s the point of all this whinging?” another older kid said, shifting. “I have an essay to write, Malfoy, and our families might be friends but your influence only goes so far.” 

Malfoy sneered. “Of course there’s a _point_ , I haven’t been yammering on for no reason. Potter’s a risk to Slytherin, can’t you see it? He’s a halfblood and an outsider and the bloody savior of the Light, and after the Bulstrode duel he’s walking around puffed up like a—a peacock.” 

“He kind of kicked her arse,” someone said. “It’s not unjustified.” 

“It’s out of proportion and it’s a risk,” Malfoy said. “ _He’s_ a risk.” 

“I have an essay to do,” the same boy repeated, standing and stalking away. 

The rest of the group broke up in ones and twos, splitting off, but Harry felt the eyes on him, considering and disapproving. Malfoy looked _way_ too smug sprawled back in his armchair like it was a bloody throne, smirking at Harry. 

Harry cocked an eyebrow at him and let his fingers brush not quite casually against the edge of his wand. 

Malfoy paled slightly, flushed with irritation, scowled, and stalked away. Hopefully to snap at Goyle, so they’d both be miserable. 

“You need to do something about that,” Theo said in an undertone. 

Instantly, Harry’s eyes snapped over to him. “That sounded like you’re telling me what to do.” 

To his credit, Theo hid his nerves almost as soon as Harry spotted them, and spoke in an even voice. “I’m offering advice.” 

“Noted,” Harry said, relaxing slightly. Theo followed suit. Neither boy missed the relieved slump to Tracy’s shoulders. “I’m handling it.” 

“Can I help at all?” Theo said very carefully. 

“If you can, I’ll tell you,” Harry said, looking down at his textbook to signal that the conversation was over. Theo and Tracy were both smart enough to get the message. 

Harry whistled as loudly as he could. 

Peeves rather abruptly stopped loosening a chandelier and peered down at him. “Oooh, it’s Potty wee lad, come to play!” 

“We had a deal, and I’m paying up,” Harry said, waggling a paper bag. “Five galleons of Dungbombs.” 

Peeves’ eyes got comically wide and he zoomed for it. 

Harry let him snatch the bag, and then pulled another one out of his schoolbag. “Here’s another five,” he said. 

“What for?” Peeves said instantly. 

“Target Draco Malfoy for a month,” Harry said instantly. 

“Ah ah ah, Peevesie isn’t silly enough to make an enemy of the Bloody Baron, no sir,” Peeves singsonged, wagging a finger at Harry. “Naught of you, oh Potter you rotter, trying to set Peevesie up!” 

Harry let a mischievous smile copied from one of the Weasley twins creep over his face. “If I can keep the Baron out of your way?” 

Peeves’ interest sharpened instantly. “Potty has some tricksies, yes he does!” 

“If I can get the Baron to let you be, _just_ for Draco Malfoy, will you do it?” Harry pressed. 

“Peevesie will be keeping those Dungbombs even if His Baron-bum doesn’t want to play,” Peeves said. 

“I know,” Harry said. “Starting tomorrow. One month.” 

“One month,” Peeves agreed, turning a somersault and then sticking one hand out. 

Harry shook it, passed over the Dungbombs, and wiped green slime off his palm as soon as Peeves had zoomed out of sight. 

The Bloody Baron wasn’t one of those ghosts that drifted around the populated areas of Hogwarts, chatting with students left and right. It was easy to track down the Fat Friar or Nearly Headless Nick, but if you weren’t a Slytherin, you’d almost never see the Baron. 

If you _were_ a Slytherin, you still almost never saw him, but Harry paid attention and he knew how to track the ghost down. There were a few spots he liked. The Astronomy Tower was one of them, and the dungeon’s lower reaches another. 

It only took thirty minutes of wandering around the deepest parts of the dungeons for Harry to feel the Baron’s creeping chill. He followed it, and the rattling of ghostly chains, until he found the ghost lurking in a dead-end hallway, obviously waiting for him. 

“Potter,” the ghost said, eyeing him in an unsettling fashion. 

“Baron,” Harry said, delivering a bow. It felt a little stiff, since he’d only recently started to learn how from Theo. 

The ghost inclined his head very slightly. Goosebumps rippled up Harry’s arms as the chill intensified. “As the Slytherin ghost, you stay neutral when it comes to our politics,” Harry said. He’d gathered as much from the older kids. 

“I do,” the Baron said, taking a bit more interest in him. 

“Including if we use an outsider to target an opponent?” 

“Yes. Although I fail to see how I might interfere. Given that I am no longer among the living,” the Baron said, a bit drily. 

Harry filed away the observation that the ghost had a sense of humor. “The outsider I’m using isn’t among the living, either.” 

“Indeed?” said the Baron, his transparent eyebrows ticking up. 

“Peeves.” 

For just a second, the ghost looked absolutely flabbergasted. “You… the poltergeist is possibly the _least_ reliable entity in this castle. I am tempted to report this to your Head of House simply to correct your evident idiocy before you make a fool of all Slytherin.” 

“I know he’s unreliable,” Harry said. “We have a deal.” 

“A deal,” the Baron said flatly. “With the poltergeist.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The _sir_ seemed to mollify the ghost a little. He recovered from his shock and scowled at Harry. “And if this _deal_ doesn’t go as you mean it to?” 

“I’ll take the consequences,” Harry said. “I’m just informing you that for one month, I’ve told Peeves to target Draco Malfoy, no one else, as part of our internal politics.”

“If that… scourge upon this school goes astray, I _will_ step in,” the Baron snarled. 

Harry nodded. “I’d expected nothing less.” 

“Very well,” the Bloody Baron said with a curt nod. “For one month only, the poltergeist may wreak his havoc upon Draco Malfoy without my interference.” He considered Harry, whose goosebumps got worse, and not from the cold this time. “I must say, you _interest_ me, Potter. It has been some time since anyone was so creative about sabotage.” 

“Let’s just say I’m not quite standard issue,” Harry said with a smile. 

The Baron drifted away through the wall without another word, leaving Harry to close his eyes and wrap warming magic around himself. 

Theo and Tracy were waiting a few turns back up towards the surface. Theo looked completely at home in the badly-lit dungeons, while Tracy seemed slightly uncomfortable with the cold and slime that you just couldn’t get rid of down this deep. She straightened up when Harry turned the corner and tried to hide her discomfort. 

“How’d it go?” Theo said. 

“Permission granted.” Harry paused in front of them. “Peeves’ new target is Draco for this month only, no ghostly interference.” 

“How did you… manage that?” Tracy said cautiously. 

Since Harry was trying to involve her a little more, tie her a little closer to him, he turned a grin in her direction. “I already owed Peeves Dungbombs. I just offered him a little more to target our good friend Draco. Since it’s technically an extension of Slytherin politics, the Baron has to be neutral, I just needed to spin it that way.” 

“Don’t get how you faced him,” Tracy said, rolling her shoulders. “He’s so creepy.” 

“He’s just a ghost, Davis,” Theo said with a cruel smile. “It’s not like he can hurt you.” 

Tracy shot him a scathing look. 

Harry tuned out their bickering. The fact remained that he was going to have to _do_ something about Malfoy, and preferably soon. The prat had family connections that couldn’t be denied, and with no one to make introductions for him yet, Harry couldn’t just insinuate himself with the upper years. Malfoy could, though, and already Harry could see a few of them starting to give him unpleasant sideways looks. Deciding they had an _outsider_ in their midst might override the general consensus to leave the first and second years to themselves, and Harry knew he wasn’t ready yet for a big power play. 

“Theo,” he said, interrupting Tracy and Theo’s bickering. His best—ally shut up immediately and raised an eyebrow. “Let’s see if we can’t get Malfoy and Weasley into a fight this week. Maybe once dear Draco is all upset with Peeves.”

Theo’s smile was all teeth. 

Harry decided that a Potions accident would be a good way to check Malfoy’s arrogance, for now. There had been enough comments in the common room to convince him that one, Malfoy’s mother kept in very close contact with her son, and two, she firmly expected him to do better than the assorted riffraff of Hogwarts. Harry didn’t think there was much to their lines about muggleborns being weaker, but after a year and a bit spent watching how muggleborns treated the magical world like American tourists treated foreign cities—wide eyes, amazement, conviction that they were being open-minded while managing to learn nothing in-depth about their new culture—well, he could see where the resentment came from. A little. It wasn’t his problem though, not really, and he could use it in this case. He and Theo paired off with Longbottom and some Gryffindor named something Thomas. Dylan, maybe, or Dean. Whoever he is, he was happily drawn into what Harry passed off as a simple prank, and he and Longbottom caused a suitable distraction by loudly arguing with Weasley while Harry levitated powdered horn of bicorn into Malfoy’s open jar of ground moonstone. They’re nearly the same color and it could be attributed to cross contamination. 

Which it was, when Malfoy’s potion exploded not two minutes later. Thomas and Longbottom were bad at hiding their glee and even Weasley forgot to glare at the Slytherins while Snape vanished the mess and sent Malfoy to the hospital wing with his skin turning scaly and flaky. 

Malfoy got a letter at breakfast the next morning that made his usual pallor even worse. Harry grinned into his eggs. He and Theo knew it wouldn’t shut Malfoy up forever but they’d have a few weeks, at least, of relative quiet, given that Snape had assigned him private remedial potions lessons in detention and how the Gryffindors were crowing about Snape’s godson mucking up so badly. Harry hadn’t actually known that last bit, but it made the whole thing so much funnier. 

Unfortunately, it had the side effect of making the Gryffindors even less bearable than usual for all the Slytherins in their year. Mostly it was heckling and jeers, with the occasional prank hex thrown in—nothing Harry and the Slytherins in general hadn’t gotten used to already. 

Transfiguration had always been one of Harry’s favorite and also least favorite classes. He liked the nature of it, how the best way to be good at Transfiguration was to will something to happen. There were really only a few spells in Transfiguration; the difficulty lay in understanding the theory of changing one thing into another well enough that saying the words would actually do something. It wasn’t enough to just say _commutatem_ and expect a wooden button to turn into metal. You had to understand what wood was made of, and how it was different from metal, and at least a little of what the wood particles would have to do to turn into metal particles. After years of forcing his magic to behave with sheer willpower, Harry was quite good at this. But Transfiguration was also miserable because McGonagall seemed to think it was a personal slight that Harry hadn’t ended up a Gryffindor. 

They had it with the Gryffindors, which didn’t help matters in the slightest. Harry suppressed a sigh as Neville slipped and managed to vanish one of the legs of his desk, dumping himself and his books onto the floor. 

McGonagall restored the desk with a wave of her wand, lips pursed. “Mr. Longbottom, really.” 

“Sorry, ma’am,” Neville mumbled, blushing. Harry tried to look encouraging when Neville caught his eye but it didn’t seem to help. He settled for mulling over ways to make Neville more… functional while he got out his homework and quill. The boy was the last heir of a powerful family and had shown flashes of strength. Harry just needed to pull it out of him. 

They took notes for an hour on Transfiguration theory and then were set to turning quills into forks, preferably of real silver. Harry’s first try was a bit tarnished, but his second came out perfect, and he let it lapse back into a quill while pulling out an introductory Arithmancy book and working on the third chapter. 

“Mr. Potter.” He looked up as McGonagall’s leather shoes clicked to a disapproving halt in front of his desk. “Five points from Slytherin for blatant disrespect.” 

“I’ve already completed the assigned task, Professor,” Harry said, eyes politely downcast. 

She humphed. “Is that so? Demonstrate, if you please, for the class, and I will give you the points back.” 

Harry stood up. The eyes of everyone were on him now; Neville looked particularly nervous. Harry held McGonagall’s gaze for several seconds before casting the spell as casually as he could manage. 

In the place of his quill, a perfect silver fork lay, with little filigree vines winding up the handle. 

McGonagall pursed her lips. Several of the Slytherins quickly hid grins, and Neville shot Harry a thumb’s up, although he hastily put his hand back down when Weasley and Runcorn glared at him. 

“…five points to Slytherin,” McGonagall nearly growled, stalking off to intimidate Crabbe and Goyle. 

“Really, she should’ve learned by now,” Theo muttered as Harry sat back down. They shared a conspiratorial grin. 

“—can do it _myself_ , thanks!” Weasley’s voice cut over the classroom noise as he glared at Granger. 

“Voices down,” McGonagall said sternly, and Weasley settled, but he and Granger were visibly still furious. 

Harry’s eyes narrowed. Opportunity. He checked McGonagall was on the other side of the room, and said, just loud enough for Malfoy to overhear, “Pathetic. Even _Granger_ beats him to it…” 

Tracy glanced from Harry to Weasley to Malfoy, and added at the same volume, “Wonder if Malfoy’s got it yet?” 

Harry and Theo both shot her slightly startled looks. Usually she didn’t engage in their scheming so publicly, or of her own initiative. The quiet girl blushed but then their attention was drawn to Malfoy as he loudly began proclaiming his own prowess for having completed the spell “before _some_ people who embarrass their birthright”. Weasley turned red as an apple. 

Honestly. It was all so easy. 

After class, Theo managed to shoot a trip jinx at Weasley that made him crash into Granger and send both of them toppling into Malfoy and Parkinson. The resulting scuffle blocked the classroom door, earned both Weasley and Malfoy a hex, and drew McGonagall’s ire, who took ten points from both Houses and assigned Malfoy and Parkinson detentions for firing the first hex. Harry wasn’t even sure if Parkinson had cast anything—her wand was in her hand, but Weasley’s rapidly growing nose was definitely Malfoy’s work—but it was immensely satisfying to watch Malfoy get briskly cut down by a professor always happy to believe the worst of a Slytherin. 

Halloween arrived with a swirl of charmed bats and leering jack-o’-lanterns and suits of armor that irregularly spat candy with slightly too much force at passing students. Harry scowled at them on his way up to breakfast; after everything Theo and Portia had been telling him about the customs of Samhain, he wished the tacky Muggle dilution of a sacred holiday hadn’t followed him _here_ . Hogwarts was his safe haven, the heart of the magical world. This was… this was _profane_. 

The Slytherins as a whole seemed to feel the same, even the few muggleborns currently in the House. Harry saw Darius Barrow jinx a floating carved pumpkin right in its gap-toothed smile when it tried to bounce playfully off his head. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were generally pretty unbothered, as far as he could tell, but the Gryffindors were even more boisterous than usual. 

It was a Saturday, which meant quidditch practice in the morning and then the potions-group-rapidly-morphing-into-a-study-group in the afternoon. Harry went to practice without any particular enthusiasm and trudged back up to the castle hours later with a damp chill spreading through both his bones and his temper. As a result, when he rounded the corner and ran smack into Weasley, Runcorn, and Granger, he was already irritable and sneered at them with a lot more venom than he usually would have. 

Predictably, Weasley blew up. “Watch where you’re going, _Potter_!” he spat. 

“Maybe don’t stand in the middle of the bloody hallway then,” Harry suggested. 

He’d aimed for a reasonable tone, but judging by Granger’s face, he’d missed the mark. Damn. The bushy-haired twit scowled at him. “We weren’t standing anywhere; we’re on our way to a _death-day party!_ ” 

Harry blinked at her. “A death-day party? Really? _Here?_ ” 

“Well it’s not like it’s _dangerous_ ,” Runcorn said, like he thought Harry was particularly stupid. 

“I think we have different ideas of what a death-day party is,” Harry said. “What exactly are you doing?” 

Granger told him, and Harry felt like bashing his head on a wall, both at the smugness in her voice and the idea that they were attending a glorified birthday party. “Why, are you scared?” she said triumphantly. 

“Not of what you’ve just described, no,” Harry said, gritting his teeth. “But a _real_ death-day party is a complex necromantic ritual designed to help a spirit trapped as a ghost find their way to the next life. _That_ would scare any sensible twelve-year-old, I expect.” 

By this point he was both hungry and in a mood to hex something, so he roughly pushed past them and stalked away before they could annoy him further. 

The afternoon brewing session passed with minimal hassle. Harry managed to delegate helping Longbottom to Theo so he could focus on the first years. Mercer Kershaw had brought Oriana Grader, of Gryffindor, along, meaning that Harry now had all five of the year’s orphaned students attending his unofficial club. They were quick and pretty easy to teach, which he appreciated, because it gave him time to work on his own brewing as well. Harry had three cauldrons of the same potion bubbling away this week so he could make minor modifications to each and see what the effects of more or less alkaline absorption had on the potion’s development. None of the books seemed to explain such things very well but if it was anything at all like cooking then there had to be _reasons_ things mixed to create certain potions. 

Nothing blew up and nobody had to go to Pomfrey with weird boils or new appendages, so they said goodbye and split up in good spirits. Kershaw and Grader slipped off to avoid being seen with Slytherins, Portia hustling them along like an irritable nanny. Longbottom and Smith guiltily did the same a few corridors from the Great Hall, both Harry and Theo assuring them that it was fine, and then Harry, Theo, Tracy, and the three Slytherin firsties wandered in last. 

Predictably, none of the tables had any food that could even charitably be described as _healthy_. Harry picked at his pumpkin pie. “Why are they incapable of feeding us something decent?” he muttered. 

Greengrass overheard and rolled her eyes. “My mother says the Headmaster thinks students will like the Muggle stuff more if it comes with all their favorite sweets.” 

“And health problems,” Harry said. 

Tracy got a considering look in her eye. “I wonder…” She dove into her bag and came up with a self-inking quill and scrap of parchment. A moment later, and her hastily scribbled note vanished from the table.

“For the house-elves?” Theo said, looking impressed. 

Tracy nodded, and a minute later, several platters of _much_ more substantial food started popping up around their area of the table. Harry smiled appreciatively at Tracy and saw with amusement the jealous glares it earned her from Vane and Fletcher. 

He served himself a few slices of ham and a dollop of collard greens—which the house-elves had managed to make taste delicious, against all odds—and settled back into the familiar rhythms of dinner at Hogwarts. It was comforting, despite the Halloween invasion, and he found himself smiling with an unusual lack of reserve. 

When they were finished, he and Theo stood up. Tracy stayed behind, saying something about a study date, but Zabini and Greengrass trailed after Harry and Theo, all of them discussing the options for extra classes made available to third years. 

Zabini was just telling them morosely that he had wanted to take Divination before he heard from an upper year that the Divination professor was apparently a total hack when they heard shouting from a corridor ahead. Harry and Theo exchanged a glance before joining what rapidly became a torrent of students jostling for a view of whatever was causing the screams. 

They were carried around a corner and ran up against the back of an immobile crowd of older, taller students. Thinking quickly, Harry dragged Theo over against the wall. Greengrass and Zabini followed and they all managed to scramble up, balanced precariously on the stone molding, to peer over the heads of the crowd.

What they saw made Harry’s stomach turn and an undignified squeaking noise emerge from Greengrass’ mouth. 

Two students lay on the ground. One was a Gryffindor, small enough to be a firstie, and the other was a Hufflepuff Harry recognized as Zach Smith’s friend Justin Finch-Fletchley. Both, as far as Harry could tell, had wide-open eyes and were completely catatonic. 

“So, what, they just keeled over?” Malfoy said impatiently. 

Harry rubbed his eyes. The other second years had been arguing for an hour about the mysterious attack on the two students. As it turned out, both were muggleborn, a fact which had led to much whispering and many constipated expressions among the upper year Slytherins. Harry had also heard mention of something called the _Chamber of Secrets_ , which was rapidly hushed up and which he promptly resolved to investigate when he had the time. No one trusted the younger years with such things, however, which meant they’d been going in conversational circles about the same few nuggets of rumor and information until Harry had a headache pounding directly behind the bridge of his nose. 

“Something _must_ have attacked them,” Malfoy continued, “two people don’t just pass out and go into comas on the spot.” 

“But there wasn’t a mark on them, and even Dumbledore couldn’t figure it out,” Bulstrode protested. She’d overcome her seemingly implacable hatred/fear of Harry to sit with him and all the rest of the second years, lured by gossip. 

Malfoy scoffed. “Well, _Dumbledore.”_

“He’s a great wizard,” Zabini said. “Only one the Dark Lord ever feared. You might think he’s politically the worst thing that’s ever happened, and he has _horrifying_ taste in robes and everything else, but he’s a magical powerhouse.”

“Snape might figure it out,” Tracy said. “If it was a potion or something.”

This was not a new hypothesis, and therefore elicited nods but no lightbulbs of realization. 

“We’re not going to learn anything else tonight,” Harry said tiredly, shutting his Charms text with a snap. Several third years sitting a few chairs away jumped and glared at him, but he scowled back until they dropped their eyes. “I’m going to sleep.” 

Theo fell in with him without a word and they made their way back to the dorms in companionable silence. Harry chucked his Charms book into his trunk with an angry jerk of his wrist and started changing. 

“What’s got you so bothered?” Theo said, eyeing him as he began to change as well. 

“In the Muggle world, if things like this start happening at schools, the people in charge tend to shut them down,” Harry said flatly. He was briefly furious with himself for speaking so freely, but then he reassured himself that it was only to Theo, from whom he kept few to no real secrets. 

“Ah,” said Theo, understanding dawning on his face. “They’ll figure it out, though, Harry. I mean, a student _died_ here once, and they didn’t shut the place down.” 

“Died?” Harry said, perking up. “Really? When?” 

“I don’t know, about fifty years ago. My father was at school at the time,” Theo said. “I’ll write and ask him. Maybe he’ll know what they did back then, and what might make them close the school down.” 

Harry felt warmed, and annoyed with himself for being warmed, at this rather unsubtle attempt to reassure him, and rewarded Theo with as genuine a smile of gratitude as he could muster. It must have been convincing, because Theo looked pleased as he clambered into bed and shut his curtains. 

The school remained abuzz about the attack, but Harry tried his best to ignore it. Quidditch training was getting rapidly more intense as the Hufflepuff-Slytherin match approached, and on top of Flint’s brutal workouts, the sadistic captain had upped the weight on the harness Harry still wore beneath his robes. For the first week afterwards he was in a constant state of fatigue, made worse by his unrelenting dedication to studying. Theo and Portia both seemed vaguely alarmed when they found him in the library, sleeping facedown on a dictionary of runes, but Harry waved them off and insisted he’d be fine. 

That evening, he and Theo were sitting in Theo’s bed, curtains spelled shut and silencing charms in place. Ostensibly they were studying but they’d gotten distracted discussing the contents of Theo’s father’s letter, delivered just that morning, while Raza napped under Harry’s bed, digesting a rat he’d caught earlier. 

“He uses a DictaQuill,” Theo said when Harry asked how his father managed to write so evenly despite the pain. “Talking hurts him, but not as badly. Although for a letter this long, it can’t have been fun.” 

Harry eyed the two or so feet of parchment and silently agreed. Theo’s father had written basically an entire essay. It started out with a list of defensive texts available in the library, several others that wouldn’t be but that he would have Larkin track down and owl them in a disguised package, and multiple admonishments to be extremely careful. 

“He seems… concerned,” Harry said. 

Theo frowned. “I’ve never heard him this worried. Whatever happened when he was at school must’ve been bad.” 

Lord Nott indeed moved on and told them a story of petrifications, rampant terror, secret monsters, and talk of closing the school. Harry was significantly more frightened by the idea of Hogwarts closing than the threat of some unspecified monster stalking the halls of Hogwarts. 

“He says they were basically frozen,” Theo said, squinting at the letter. “Couldn’t move or breathe or anything. Smith went to visit Finch-Fletchley in the hospital wing and said he was still, you know, alive. They’ve been forcing potions down their throats to keep them healthy apparently. They just can’t figure out why they won’t wake up.”

“Rookwood told me today brain scans indicate they’re awake but unaware,” Harry said. “So it can’t be the same thing as last time.” 

“Why didn’t they have an Auror investigation?” Theo said. “Father doesn’t mention the DMLE showing up at all—just the professors searching.” 

“Maybe they’ll be more logical this time,” Harry said, without much hope. 

Theo just scoffed, expressing their mutual lack of faith in the Ministry, and shifted the parchment so they could read the last few paragraphs. 

His father had managed to include a few hints about the Chamber of Secrets in what seemed like fairly innocuous ramblings about rumors from his school years. Harry found himself getting more and more intrigued as he read. Blood purity politics and hidden rooms… it made sense that Slytherin’s monster would be a snake if Slytherin himself was a parselmouth. 

Actually, he should probably tell Theo about now that _he_ was a parselmouth. 

Harry watched Theo from under his lashes. His first… friend was sprawled back against his pillows, staring at the canopy of his bed as he spun one theory after another about where the Chamber might be and who might have attacked the muggleborns. 

“There’s something you should know,” Harry said, interrupting a particularly colorful idea involving polyjuice potion and devil’s snare. 

Theo sat up and eyed him. “Yeah?”

“I have a snake familiar and... I'm a parselmouth,” Harry said. 

For a moment, neither of them moved. Harry’s hand was on his wand even though he wasn’t sure what he’d do if Theo freaked out. He didn’t know a spell to wipe memories and he hadn’t asked for a vow beforehand, even though he could have— _should_ have. 

“Show me,” Theo said. 

Harry didn’t break eye contact with him. _“Wake up,_ friend," he called. _"I’m showing Theo what I can do.”_

Raza stirred beneath the bed and wound his way up the bedpost. Theo tensed when the puff adder came into view, eyes going wide at the sibilant hissing sounds. _“Do I need to bite him?”_ Raza asked. 

_“I’m not sure yet,”_ Harry said. 

_“I wouldn’t like to. I like this hatchling.”_

_“I do too,”_ Harry said. 

“What did you say?” Theo said. 

Something about his bright eyes and his posture, still open and unafraid, made Harry answer honestly. “He asked if he needed to bite you and I said I wasn’t sure, and he said he likes you so he wouldn’t want to do that.” 

Oddly enough, Theo’s face cracked into a delighted smile. “He likes me?”

“Apparently,” Harry said. 

Theo reached out, glancing at Harry for permission, and ran a gentle hand over Raza’s scales. Harry couldn’t remember anyone ever voluntarily touching the snake even if Theo had gotten used to seeing him around. Raza let out a wordless hiss of happiness and shifted so he lay coiled in Theo’s lap. 

Harry watched them, Theo completely distracted for the moment by the snake in his lap. “You’re not afraid, or disgusted,” he said quietly. 

Theo’s eyes snapped up to him. “You thought I’d be—what, scared off like some Mudblood who thinks snakes bring sin?” 

“I don’t know,” Harry said uncomfortably. “It’s—everyone hates parselmouths. I didn’t think you would, but… you know.”

It was as close as he’d ever gotten to admitting insecurity, or even that he cared what Theo thought of him. Something in Theo’s expression changed as he realized this and Harry felt painfully, unpleasantly vulnerable.

Before he could retreat, Theo leaned forward and cautiously laid a hand on Harry’s where it rested on the bed. Just far enough away not to make Harry flinch, just close enough to make his point. “You could never frighten me,” Theo said quietly. “You were the first person not to be afraid of _me_. I’d be a pretty bad friend if I couldn’t return the favor.”

Harry fought his warring instincts for a second. He felt the usual aversion to touch, obviously, the instinct to pull away from something that had only ever brought him pain—but there was a new urge, one that told him this was Theo, this was someone he’d let in a little and who hadn’t betrayed him. For some reason, he didn’t want Theo to lean away. Theo was _his_ , and here he was, holding Harry’s familiar and pressing up against the edge of Harry’s boundaries, closer than anyone else dared get but knowing exactly how far not to press. 

Slowly, Harry turned his hand so his palm was facing up and his fingers could wrap around Theo’s wrist. Theo left his hand slack, seemingly knowing that holding onto Harry in return would ruin Harry’s fragile self-control. 

Under his fingers Harry could feel Theo’s pulse leaping. 

“It’s incredible,” Theo said. “Your gift, I mean. You. That you—I mean, it’s been _centuries_ since one of the Founders’ gifts turned up, and now two people in such a short time…” 

“Founders’ gifts?” Harry said, withdrawing his hand. 

Theo shrugged. “There’s an old legend. Slytherin could talk to snakes, but it was more than that, only we don’t know what else; Hufflepuff was an empath or something, Ravenclaw was telepathic and could astral project, and Gryffindor’s had… something to do with fire, I forget what it was. Supposedly only their descendants have their gifts, and even then only those who Magic thinks are worthy.”

“Those all sound incredibly useful,” Harry said. 

“It’s rumored the Smiths are descendants of Hufflepuff, but no one knows what happened to Ravenclaw and Gryffindor’s descendants.” Theo yawned and leaned back. “We might never know. Most families have some kind of inherited gift. Things like that tend to crop up around your thirteenth birthday, though, so maybe Smith will get a wash of feeling people’s emotions by next year.”

Harry rolled his eyes and took Raza back. “He seems the least likely candidate for empathic abilities.”

“Maybe, but who knows? Magic is unpredictable.”

“Night, Theo,” Harry said, scooting to the edge of the bed. 

“Goodnight,” Theo said with another yawn. “Good luck tomorrow, if I don’t see you in the morning.”

Harry grinned. “Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Correction for anyone who read it already: Theo gets introduced to Raza in this chapter. I accidentally posted an old draft of it. It's been updated. Also, Neville is indeed in Hufflepuff; I've just spent too much time in the S&S world lately.


End file.
